


Spider Man

by Kila9Nishika, Philosophizes



Series: Alexandria 'Verse [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Alternate History, Babies and children, Blood and Gore, Childbirth, F/F, F/M, Finland!!!, Formal language, Gen, Horses, Letters, Magic, Mercenaries, Mutants and magic and swords oh my, Pairings onscreen and pairings offscreen, Politics, Seriously Alternate Universe, Seriously VIOLENCE, Violence, War and death and executions, What happens when a nomadic warrior society meets a sedentary agricultural society, cast of thousands, divine intervention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:29:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kila9Nishika/pseuds/Kila9Nishika, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being bitten by a genetically altered spider, Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje sets out for revenge for the death of his Uncle, only to find himself embroiled in a world much more violent and straightforward than the one he had left.  Now all he has to do is dodge the arrows, survive the swords heading his way, and hopefully not end up dead.</p>
<p>(Recommended that you read the previous two works in the series before this one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In case you hadn't noticed, the tags say that this is an Alternate History Alternate Universe- which means the world within is going to look very, very different. it's okay if things are little confusing. Leave us a comment if you think there are things that need more explaining, or just want to ask/talk about/express enthusiasm about what we've done.
> 
> A list of mentioned characters with their canon names is provided at the end of the story, as well as an explanation of the locations featured. The chapter following is maps.
> 
> General warnings for the story in the tags. Please, review them before reading, we're serious about these.

_From recordings done by Shoshanna Sihara (Earth-96, “Sue Storm”). Translated by SHIELD._

-

The Sarmatians? You want to know about the _Sarmatians?_

 _God,_ no; no you don’t want to know about the Sarmatians! What they did to Veneda- anyone else, absolutely anybody else- the Finns. The Finns are the only ones who actually talk to them regularly, nobody has any idea _why_ they do, but-

Let me tell you about the Finns. They’re a different sort of… strange.

For most people, mutation is a useful quirk or maybe a powerful skill. For the Finns, it’s a way of life. They actively seek out people with powers- mutant or magical, they don’t care. They have people they call Etsijaanoita; people who are trained to discover what a person’s powers are, or can do. They’re the ones who keep the Finnish Books, which are a bit like a mutant index or genealogy- it’s the name of every person they’ve ever come across with a power, what their powers were, how they strong they were, who their relatives were, what powers _they_ had. It’s a really great source for research, actually, biological science would never get by without it. The Finns, though, _they_ use the Etsijaanoidat as matchmakers. The Finns _marry_ for mutations and magic- their first Prince was _Loki Silvertongue_ and they married him back into the royal family _twice_ afterwards; that should tell you how seriously they take this.

The mess that’s the joint Viking-Finnish monarchy right now is because of that, actually. There was a Viking king, Magnus I, who kidnapped one of the less-inspiring Princesses the Finns have had powers-wise and serial raped her trying to get a mutant child who’d be King of the Vikings. Well, I already told you how Viking genetics is weirdly resistant that way- there were three children, none of them mutants. That nearly cost the Vikings their kingdom and _definitely_ destroyed their already-shaky relationship with the Finns, who slaughtered the Viking court when they rescued their Princess and then leveled Skandia on their way home. Anyway, so when the Viking succession crisis finally blew up, the most qualified person bloodlines-wise was Eydís Kultainen Pirkkje Valdir-Hjördís, the absentee Princess of the Finns. She left Judea with her wife and children _very_ quickly when the Vikings asked her to take the throne for someone who’d neglected the empire she was supposed to be running for so long. It wasn’t much of a surprise, unfortunately; starting with Antona the Golden, the Finns have had a string of neglectful mostly-Viking rulers who let a cousin, Mei Loistavis Pirkkje, actually run Finland as its Grand Duchess.

There’s a nice story about that side of the family, actually, that gets told around Alexandria. About… oh, sixty years ago, right after Mei’s official appointment as Grand Duchess, her younger sister Miiria came to Alexandria to study. There was a Byzantine man there at the time, Rixardos Zabat, who she took a fancy to. _He_ had an interesting mutation- perfect vocal mimicry of any voice or sound, and when he sang he could call anything he wanted to himself. That’s what he did on the Axeinos, he’d sing the fish into the nets. Some rich businessman heard about him and sponsored him to Alexandria, where met the Finnish Duchess, fell in love, and then dropped out of his doctoral program when she finished hers to go back to Finland with her. She gave up her birthright from Loki of a magically-extended life so they’d age at the same rate- they’re dead now, assassinated, but it was nice to hear about while it lasted. It was the sort of thing you’d only expect in a children’s story.

-

_June, 1826_

The bundle of scrolls faded into existence on the top of Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje’s desk in his quarters in the Minor Court. They came with a folded letter on top and the three-tone accompaniment unique to the Grand Duchess of the Finn’s magical sendings.

Piitros swiveled one ear towards the sound and didn’t open his eyes, enjoying his doze on the warm mantel-stone of his room’s heater.  When the clock chimed eleven, he stretched, extending every claw and joint of his spine, then dropped gracefully down to the carpet. He shifted fluidly out of his housecat form as he walked towards his chair and collapsed in it, staring glumly at the scrolls. They were bound with the official green ribbon of state business, the ends enchanted into a seal that glowed softly gold with security spells.

The Finnish wolf stared reproachfully at him from the royal seal, blinking at him and yawning. It bared its teeth at Piitros when he reached for the bundle, snarling quietly.

“Oh, be quiet,” Piitros grumbled at it. “They’re for me.”

He pressed a finger to the seal and felt the wolf’s teeth prick through his skin, checking to make sure he was the proper recipient. Satisfied, the wolf moved from under his finger and flowed back into the ribbon, turning again into gold-thread embroidery on the green silk. Piitros flipped the ribbon up and off the scrolls, and opened the letter.

_‘My good nephew_

_I find myself contemplating the sudden flowering of our tundra here in Revontulet Heikaal. The colors of the lichens and moss, for this short time, will mirror the shimmering plasma ribbons that are lost to us in the summer to the never-setting sun. Truly, the symbolic confluence of this date, the first Bright-Day of the Day-Moon, has never been more perfect a description of the world than in these times. Our mortal lives parallel the course of nature these days, here in Revontulet Heikaal. As our friends in Nihon continue their fight with the Sinese for control of Ankamuti, so do we continue our fight with the ice of the Gorlog. I think longingly of your ice-free waters in Raajokin; and of yourself and my husband, watching over you._ ’

Piitros resisted the urge to take notes on his aunt’s opening statements. He was no good at the poetical conventions required of letter writing.

_‘As the ice floes impede our waters, though, I find happily that our guests do not impede the flow of our Major Court. We received to court some days ago your father’s old friend from school, Doctor Conrad Conochvars, who was accompanied by Master Heimrikh Ásbjarn, the son of the man who paid for your father to attend Alexandria. The younger Master Ásbjarn is refreshingly accomplished in manners and etiquette, and has distinguished himself quite well for a foreigner. Doctor Conochvars, sadly, is not so accomplished; but Alexandrian scientists rarely are, and thus our disappointment was mild.’_

Piitros tried very hard not to take that as a slightto his own, rather lacking, mastery of etiquette. There was a reason he was head of administration for the Finnish heartland here in Raajokin, at the Minor Court; and not with his aunt at the Major Court. The official story was and always had been that it was easier for his uncle to provide him with security at the Minor Court, since the people behind his parents’ deaths had never been discovered- but Piitros was twenty-one now, an adult for years, and surely it was doing his social and political standing no good to be under guard by his aging uncle. He was no _child,_ that needed looking after- but it was not done to slight one’s family.

If not for his parents’ assassinations, he’d thought often, with a tinge of bitterness, he would have been in Alexandria years ago, and already in possession of at least one Doctorate.

_‘Doctor Conochvars expressed his desire to visit our family tomb to pay his respects and express his continued remembrances to your parents. We entertained them in court for a few days, and this letter comes as they leave on the train for Raajokin.’_

That put their arrival at about four hours from the time the letter and scrolls had arrived; maybe about three-and-a-half hours from now.

_‘They will be proceeding straight from the train to the tomb, where you will meet them.’_

Oh, joy. He had an unforeseen diplomatic obligation.

He scanned the rest of the letter- it contained only the formal closing statements, the farewell, and the date. He ended up putting it aside and looked through the labels on the scrolls, mentally plotting his route to distribute them to the appropriate parties.

-

The easiest way to get to the government complex in the Minor Court from the Pirkkje Residence was through the stables. Piitros made a short cut across the stone-paved courtyard to the stables, which he hadn’t meant to linger in, but-

“Stablehand.”

All movement in the stables temporarily halted as every single stablehand stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Piitros knew that part of the job of royalty was being regal, but all he wanted to do when people’s attention was focused on him so intently was make some sort of quip to lighten the atmosphere. It was a serious character flaw in Finnish royalty, he reflected gloomily, since dignity and grace were tantamount.

He pointed mutely to the nearest stablehand, silently dismissing everyone else. As they turned back to their jobs, he was able to relax.

The stablehand bowed deeply and held it, waiting for Piitros to speak.

“My uncle’s horse is gone,” Piitros said. “There are messages for him.”

“My Royal Highness, we are expecting your uncle back before the thirteenth hour,” the stablehand said, and straightened up. “I can have a courier horse prepared immediately.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Piitros told them hastily. “I’ll just- leave it for him.”

“As you wish, my duke,” the stablehand said, and held out both hands to accept a few of the scrolls, which were carefully placed in a saddlebag for when he returned.

Thankfully, the rest of the people who needed the scrolls were in, and Piitros emerged from the gate that opened directly on the Government Plaza ready to not speak to anyone else. The Palace Guard Quarters were just across the way, against the complex wall, and Piitros knew if he walked past them the Guard Captain would detach a few people to walk with him- or, if he told them to leave, shadow him. It would be nothing but more etiquette and manners and he’d had enough of that today.

He ducked into the join of one of the wall towers and the Quarters and shifted, taking off from the Court grounds as a Steppe Eagle, flapping up through the guards patrolling the skies. Inevitably, a few peeled off- a swan, a gull, and a dove- to follow him; but this way, there would be no talking. He merely got a dip of the wings and a bit of a guard, gull flying point, swan behind, dove flitting around the formation, to keep his airspace clear.

Raajokin was spread out on the north bank of the Raajoki underneath him, the wild, undeveloped south bank in Sarmatian territory a sharp contrast to the stone and brick and steel and glass of the Finnish city.

Piitros considered, for a moment, going hunting in Sarmatia’s fields, but there was really no prey animal he wanted. He adjusted course slightly instead, wheeling around the palace complex to glide over the City Plaza, the roof of the City Palace shimmering gold and the colored tops of the tents and stalls in the City Market bringing a patchwork of color to the warm gray stone and the dark red brick. Loki’s Temple and the Lesser State Library stood out with their green copper roofs, and the golden-brown shine of the brass against the dark dull iron of the Grand Bridge cut across the Raajoki. Piitros dove at the bridge and landed on one of the suspension posts platforms, dropping back into his human shape for the climb down to the bridge walkway. As he descended, the dove guard followed his path and his shift.

When they both reached the walkway, she bowed quickly, and started to say: “My royal highness-”

“I would be greatly pleased if you confined your guarding to an appreciable distance behind me,” Piitros told her, and she agreed with a murmur.

Piitros walked relatively alone down the Grand Bridge, which didn’t have much traffic at the moment, headed for the white lacquered wood and flawless marble of Hela’s Temple at the far end, which guarded the cemetery. The bridge terminated right up against the Temple torii, forcing people to keep to the proper path. He took the two stairs up onto the vai and purchased incense at the Offerings Office before proceeding down the courtyard to the steaming miikva, ritually washing his face, hands, and shoes, and then passing through Hela’s shrine and the crematorium behind it to reach the cemetery.

He took his time walking the cemetery path, first through Hela’s Garden, the burial grounds for the unknown bodies and the foreigners, where he wandered some to take up time, reading the inscriptions on the shrines to keep the dead spirits identified and happy. The walk through the general grounds, past all the small family tombs eventually brought him to the intersection of the main path and the side one, that curved down and away down the arm of land that connected this Finnish territory to the Sarmatian lands, with the shrine to Tuoni in the middle. Across the river the City Palace bells were ringing the fourteenth hour, so he sat down on the first tier of the plinth Tuoni’s statue stood on and just enjoyed the quiet of the cemetery. At the fourteen-and-half bells he stood and continued on the path until he reached the Pirkkje family tomb, just before the cemetery exit.

It was a low stone building, flat-roofed, the opening covered with a hard, stiff cloth that softened into the curtain it really was as Piitros touched it, letting him tie it away inside the edifice. The Pirkkje family tomb was larger than most others, but just as dark. The shrines for individuals lined the walls, the wooden structures carved with the names, attributes, and accomplishments of the people whose interred ashes they stood over. Piitros’s parents, the latest in the family to die, were by the door. He knelt on the dirt floor to light the incense and place it in the shallow bronze offering dish on the shelf for his parents’ joint shrine, then bent over to touch his head to the ground for saying the proscribed prayers.

He stayed in that position for a while after finishing, just contemplating idly, until he felt a light brush against his mind, his guard in human form giving him a little warning of the arrival of the expected guests.  Piitros unfolded himself then and went to stand in the doorway of the tomb, watching the two men present their credentials to his guard.

Once the bit of ceremony was concluded and she’d let them pass, he took a step to bring him out of the tomb doorway, where it wouldn’t have been appropriate to receive guests. It was easy to tell who was who, here, even without the clear age difference- Doctor Conochvars was wearing his full Alexandrian Doctor’s robes, while Heimrikh Ásbjarn was in the rich, bright colors of Byzantine fashion. His long wool paludamentum flared out dramatically and fell, perfectly, as he dropped to one knee a couple feet in front of Piitros, head bowed, right fist to the ground.

Piitros felt ceremonially impaired, even as Doctor Conochvars simply bent forwards at the waist to bow, favoring a less-correct but still-acceptable genuflection. Piitros himself had left the palace in what amounted to clothes for a casual, incognito stroll around the palace garden, which was about what he _had_ been planning on doing with his day. Reading outside in good weather was a nice way to relax, and Piitros realized that, somewhere along the line, he’d just _assumed_ that his guests would be dressed down as well, for traveling, and that the dressed-up meeting would come at their formal dinner reception in a few hours, once evening fell- but they’d come straight from Revontulet Heikaal from the Morning Court there. Of _course_ they hadn’t changed out of court clothes.

 _This is why they don’t let you do anything **really** important,_ he berated himself mentally. _Aunt **Mei** never would have-_  

Piitros remembered that his guests had to hold their positions until he gave them permission to stop.

“My Royal Aunt’s missive preceded your coming with good recommendations,” he told them, opening the way for conversation. “She spoke favorably of your time at the Major Court, and I hope that your good graces continue here in the Minor.”

“Your Royal Highness, Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje-”

Oh, Friya, he was going for the _full_ address, which meant _he’d_ have to do the same back-

“-Duke of the Finns, your kindness and munificence of words exceeds your reputation and stature.”

_I have a reputation and stature? That’s news to **me.**_

 “Master Heimrikh Ásbjarn of Byzantium, I see that my Royal Aunt’s compliments were not misplaced,” Piitros told him, completely lacking the inspiration to do anything but falling back on complimenting his manners. “You truly do have an exceedingly good grasp of etiquette. I look forward to meeting you again at dinner tonight, and experiencing the pleasure of your company over the table.”

Heimrikh smiled, just the right amount, and stepped back and away, holding an arm out to invite Doctor Conochvars forward, and Piitros couldn’t help but think that it was very, very obvious that he was inadequate for the task set to him because there was _no_ reason to hand off the conversation like this, not yet.

Piitros reminded himself that _he_ was the _Duke_ of _Finland,_ and the highest-ranked person here, so he _could_ dispense with some of the formalities if he really, really wanted to; and could stand getting a passively critical letter from one of the Etiquette Secretaries when they heard about it; or worse, one from his aunt.

He reached out to shake Doctor Conochvars’ hand, but remembered halfway there that the Doctor was missing his right arm, and it was the one he’d use to shake Piitros’ hand with, and this was a _major_ breach of politeness, and Doctor Conochvars took Piitros’ hand with his right and shook.

Piitros had a momentary lapse of manners and stared before catching himself and looking the Doctor in the eyes, instead.

Doctor Conochvars said something pleasant about ‘the miracle of science’, but Piitros didn’t hear it through the mortification banging around in his head. He managed some weak reply to the effect of happiness for his continued health, and completely-unsubtly reminded him that he was here to pay his respects to the late Doctor Miiria and Master Rixardos Pirkkje, not their son; and then fled in a gross breach of manners back to the palace without saying goodbye.

Someone was _definitely_ going to have words with him about this, very soon.

-

Sprawled out on his bed for the time being, Heimrikh Ásbjarn smirked at the patterned ceiling.  This was going to be ridiculously _easy_.  Piitros Pirkkje was a _joke_.

Back in Byzantium, his father had gone mad with advice, recommending how to avoid being jailed for this, being imprisoned for that, and above all, how to avoid _offense_.  Because, in this mad world, offending a Finn was more dangerous than _killing_ one.  Seriously.

Of course, Heimrikh hadn’t been nearly as nervous as his father.  Sure, meeting the Grand Duchess at the Finnish Major Court was probably one of the most difficult things he had ever done, given the intricacies involved; but within the space of five minutes, Piitros Pirkkje had missed about fourteen different ways that he could have taken offense.  The most obvious had been Heimrikh’s vibrant green paludamentum, which was pinned with a silver and gold clasp.

Gold and green was reserved for the Finnish Royals, and _only_ the Finnish Royals. It should have been read as the height of bad taste, as well as an outrageous presumption. The Finns were touchy about status, and it should have been a deep insult that a mere _foreigner,_ and one of Viking descent besides, had _dared_ consider the combination.

The laughably-styled Duke of Finland hadn’t even _noticed._

Heimrikh grinned at the ceiling.  He was a wolf among a sea of peacocks – they were pretty, and bit if you got too close, but wolves were much more dangerous.

Furthermore, among this sea of peacocks, Piitros Pirkkje was a little brown bird – plain, dull, and so nervous that he flew away if you breathed wrong.

Seriously, his father had chattered on and on and _on_ about how sinuous and dangerous the Finnish courts were, but this was _nothing_ compared to Byzantium.  Back home, he played word games and dodged poison on an hourly basis – this stuff was _nothing_.

Rolling over, Heimrikh called his traveling case to his bed with a gesture.  Rubbing the lovely purple leather for a moment, Heimrkh unlocked and opened the trunk, mentally shoving his piles of clothing onto his bed.

Still grinning the tiniest bit foolishly, Heimrikh stroked the bottom of the trunk, wincing as a tiny needle pricked his finger.  The DNA code lock on the magically hidden compartment had been _expensive_ , but…

“There you are,” he breathed, carefully levitating a tiny box out of the compartment.  “Now, first things first.”  He set down the tiny box, smiling at the pinholes in the sides.  “Yesssss….”  His grin grew wider.  “Aren’t you _beautiful?_ ”

Gleaming in the dim light of the room, a tiny crystal vial hung misleadingly innocently in the air.  The shimmering blue liquid inside could have simply been a dangerous alcoholic concoction from downtown Byzantium.  But, of course, Heimrikh wouldn’t have had to smuggle an alcoholic concoction with this much subterfuge. 

No, this was a beautiful little productive piece of poisonous science that would bring him to glory.

The best part?  It wouldn’t actually kill anyone.  Not even…a spider.

Opening the little box that he had set aside, Heimrikh lifted the spider out with a flick of thought – and dropped it into the tiny vial.

“Ah – Master Heimrikh – what are you doing?  I thought –”

Heimrikh flipped off the bed, drawing his sword.  At the last second, he paused, his blade an inch from Connor Conochvars’ throat. 

“You _idiot_ ,” Heimrikh hissed.  “I nearly _killed_ you, you wet-brained barbarian!  Now move!  Out of my way!”

Heimrikh watched as the spider writhed in the vial.  “You are not here to _think_ , idiot.  You are here to do as you are told, nothing more and nothing less.  Do you understand?”

Conochvars nodded, backing away slowly.  “I – just – why did you – with the spider?”

Heimrikh rolled his eyes.  “Just to enlighten your thick brain, I’ll explain.  The spider, by soaking in the liquid, becomes a vessel _for_ the liquid.  If we were to pour the liquid into a drink or food, or if we were to inject the liquid, we could be implicated.  But who ever heard of a man who is _not_ capable of controlling animals or insects being blamed for a spider bite?”

“Spiders are neither animals nor insects.”

Heimrikh mentally slapped Conochvars, rolling back onto his bed as Conochvars reeled across the room.  “Shut up.  You’re here to work, not to be smart.  Now get ready for your meeting this afternoon.  I need to fit the spider with the control system.”

Conochvars hesitated, and left the room, disappearing behind one of the movable paper-and-wood dividing walls.

“Wimp,” Heimrikh muttered, smirking. The control system for the spider was delicate work, made possible in the end only by telekinetically freezing the spider in place. The spider went in a thin silk bag, easy to inconspicuously open.

The reception dinner that night was the full complement of the Minor Court, which meant the Governors of every administrative district in the Finnish heartland, and their spouses, and then the higher-ranked government officials, and the dignitaries stationed at the Minor Court, all in addition to the Court’s luohi-noita- their magicians and mutants- and their artists, musicians, poets, and entertainers.

Peacocks, all of them, again; even the Magyar Baron, who apparently regularly insisted on his own idiosyncratic version of his official uniform as the Marshal of the Equestrian Guard. He looked fierce, but Marshal of the Equestrian Guard was a hereditary title, just like the Magyar Baron- and since when had _anyone_ who inherited a military title actually been competent, or had proper experience? Sure, there was a war on back home, but the Vikings hadn’t officially declared as combatants and even if they did, anyone who wanted a piece of Finland would have to go through them, the Turks, or Sarmatians. Heimrikh would be surprised if the Vikings managed even a couple groups of Finns for military service for the time when they stopped vacillating on formal declarations of war.

The only truly outstanding characters there were Piitros Pirkkje, the Finns’ sad excuse for a Duke; and his uncle, the Grand Duke of Finland and Duke of Estia and Livia, the Finnish protectorate state in Venedan territory.

  Heimrikh and Conochvars had to be presented to him, of course, and that’s how the dinner started. He repeated the flourishing Finnish bow he’d used at the graveyard for the Grand Duke, and forced himself to keep a straight face when the herald appended _‘Vanspag of Tribe Ruirig’_ to the list of titles, wondering how the ever-so-proper Finns could _stand_ to have a Sarmatian Grand Duke who openly defied assimilation, keeping his warlord title and belting his swords and knives on over his robes.

Grand Duke Benham smiled at him, once, and Heimrikh committed his first breech of protocol of his entire time in Finland by looking away. One of the many things the Grand Duke had kept from his Sarmatian life was his teeth, still dyed the red that his people called _shuriig_. The color was disquietingly highlighted by the red-and-black thread silk he had used as his complimentary fabric in the gold and green outfit- it looked like thick blood, flowing beneath the Finnish veneer his marriage to the Grand Duchess had forced on him.

Heimrikh reminded himself that the Grand Duke was a barbarian, yes, but also old- well past the age where he would go to battle, and the weapons he carried were an old man’s vainglorious nostalgia.

 Piitros was outstanding for his complete ineptness and nervous silence, which everyone seemed to have trained themselves out of noticing for politeness’ sake; a small, younger shadow to the Grand Duke on the dais overlooking the Court Hall that trotted behind his uncle to the ballroom where dinner was being served like a particularly skittish lapdog. Heimrikh nudged Conochvars discreetly to remind him that he had a job to do with the Duke, after the dinner was over. The little cloth bag with the spider was hidden up his voluminous sleeves, just waiting for the moment when he’d pull it open and release the spider on Piitros. The offer of stories about his parents, or Alexandria, should be _more_ than enough to make the boy drop Finnish pretenses and his guard.

He kept a careful eye on the Doctor throughout the meal, and in the sortie they all retired to afterwards, until he saw Conochvars and Piitros slip off together to one of the small conversational side rooms in the Court Hall.

-

The moment that they had drawn out of view from the rest of the court, Piitros seated himself on a chair and waved Doctor Conochvars over to another one.

“Please, sit,” Piitros said haltingly.  “And – if it does not offend – we might dispense with the formalities?”

Sitting slowly, Doctor Conochvars seemed to brighten somewhat at the suggestion.  “If – that is alright with Your Royal Highness, I –”

Piitros winced, ducking his head.  “Oh, call me Piitros, please?  Surely, in private, we can have a simple conversation?”  Inwardly, he groaned at the stuttering mess he had made from a simple sentence.

A bit of the tension seemed to seep from the Doctor.  “If that is alright, that would be fine.”

Piitros beamed.  “So, I was wondering about the newest information about mutations from Alexandria.  I heard that you had been working on some fascinating new ideas dealing with healing using mutations, and I wanted to know if there was anything that hadn’t made it up here to Finland.”

Doctor Conochvars hesitated.  “I’m not quite sure what has or has not made it here from Alexandria, but – well, did you hear about Doctor Bét Yisroel’s successful serum?”

“I did!”  Piitros said eagerly.  “Were you involved with that?”

Doctor Conochvars laughed quietly, waving a gentle hand dismissively.  “Only peripherally,” he admitted, “but I do have a great deal of our research on my computer, and I could easily share it with you over the course of my visit here.”

Piitros couldn’t help his small hop in place of excitement.  He was going to get to see the most up-to-date research in the biological sciences!  This was so _exciting!_

“So, could you explain to me about how you got around the human body’s natural impulse to resist overwrite?  Because that’s where the latest information stops.”  Piitros leaned forwards eagerly, and restrained a twitch as something tickled on the back of his neck.

Doctor Conochvars looked down.  “Well, that was actually a combination of an idea that I had and an idea that Avraham – that is, Doctor Bét Yisroel – had.  You see, we knew that it had to be possible, based on some of our previous successes, and our correspondence with some of Avraham’s colleagues.”

He settled a little deeper into his chair, an action Piitros recognized from the Alexandrian-trained tutors that had been lured to Finland on the promise of good patronage.

“Tell me what you know about how the process works?” Doctor Conochvars said, placing a hint of query in his voice to avoid making it an order.

“Mutations are a genetic feature humans, coded in two parts,” Piitros began. This part was easy- he could have asked this question in the street and any Finn would have been able to recite what they’d been taught in school. “The mutate system is twofold, the chemical compound secreted as a secondary function in the endocrine system, and the mutation genome contained in every piece of DNA. The mutation genome comes in three parts- the trigger, the binder, and the code. In natalate mutants, the chemical compound was released in utero, thereby manifesting the mutation from birth. Pubescate mutants’ mutate systems release the chemical throughout the process of puberty, creating a slow build up to the full strength of the mutation. But what the process does is simulate maturnate mutants’ development, taking an adult subject without a mutation and activating the trigger gene-”

Now things got complicated.

“-that’s the part I’m not so clear on, Doctor, because none of the writings ever specified a tri- _ow!_ ”

Piitros jumped, clapping a hand to the back of his neck. 

“Are you alright?” Doctor Conochvars asked nervously.

Piitros grimaced, pulling his hand away from his neck.  Two tiny specks of blood and a scuttling spider told him all he needed to know.  “Just a spider bite, Doctor Conochvars.  Don’t worry about it.  I’ll get some scans done tomorrow if it starts to swell.”

“If you’re sure,” Doctor Conochvars said uncertainly. 

“I’m sure,” Piitros said flatly. “The trigger? I know the most common non-induced trigger in adults is stress, either chronic or immediate life-and-death-”

“I can’t tell you the specifics of the procedure in Alexandria,” the Doctor told him, a little hesitantly. “I wasn’t there. But when we were theorizing and doing preliminary work, the most promising trigger was radiation. It already has mutating properties, and when done in a proper medical or research facility, decontamination and treatment for radiation poisoning in the event of a failed procedure is easy- while, say, shooting someone in the hopes that they spontaneously develop advanced healing capabilities is obviously untenable.”

“Preliminary work,” Piitros repeated. “You mentioned previous successes?”

Doctor Conochvars smiled, a little smugly.

“I noticed you were surprised about my arm, earlier today,” he said, and Piitros was crushed with overwhelming embarrassment again, going red to his hair. “That _was_ the previous success. Doctor Bét Yisroel was working on the project as a scientific matter, but mine was personal. My theory was that the maturnate mutation process could be triggered partway, to cement minor bits of genetic engineering- I was born without a right arm, and I thought I could introduce a bit of my genetic code, redone to include the portion that said ‘build an arm here’, and trick my mutate system into treating the changed code as my mutation. Doctor Bét Yisroel thought it could go further, could be done to… graft, I suppose, is the best word, a mutation or mutations different from what was in the genetic code into a person with the same procedure. He was still working on the exact process when we were forced to flee Franx, when the war started.”

He paused for a moment, thinking.

“Have you heard of Doctor Alspeth Ros?”

Piitros nodded.  “She wrote some of the most recent papers about mutation and the biology behind it that have been translated into Finnish.  You’ve met her?”

“Once,” Doctor Conochvars allowed.  “When I was passing through Alexandria from Athens on my way to Franx. She’s a very intelligent young woman, and she has a mutation that I’ve heard is revered quite a bit here in Finland.  She can identify mutant abilities.”

Piitros straightened in his seat.  “She – why isn’t that in any of her biographies?  They put a biography with each paper, and – oh, it explains so _much_ about how she knew that the X538 sequence was correct, she could _see_ it!”

“Yes, I’d heard about that,” the Doctor said. “Anyway, after we fled Franx, Doctor Bét Yisroel went directly to Alexandria, and Doctor Ros started working with him. That’s why she was studying the X538 sequence in the first place- Bét Yisroel had been thinking he’d have to incorporate it into his theory. I don’t know if he ever did, though. If you want to know more about his work, you should write her. Mention my name, and say I recommended you, and they should answer your questions. Those of us who have worked on this project, we’re careful about who we talk to about the specifics. Ethics is paramount.”

Ethics-

“Have you also worked with Doctor Xavier?” Piitros asked.

“No,” Doctor Conochvars said.  “He wasn’t in Alexandria at the same time as I, and he doesn’t agree with using science to induce mutation.”

Piitros frowned.  “But, I’ve read his philosophy papers.”  More like suffered through them; he preferred science to philosophy.  “He’s a big human rights activist.”

“Oh, he has no problem with people who are mutants, or people who have had mutations activated, he just doesn’t agree with the actual action of inducing mutation.”  Doctor Conochvars twisted his lips.  “He thinks that there are too many ways that the science can be _misused_.”

There was something odd about that last emphasis.  Piitros knew that he wasn’t the greatest student of human relations, but he would definitely have to think about that last sentence at some other point.  It was almost as if –

“Misused,” he said. “It’s- not _that_ big a step from using the procedure on a natalate or pubescate mutant instead of an adult non-mutant to overwrite one ability with another. I can see how that could be really useful, because you _do_ get mutations that prevent things like human contact or difficult or impossible to control, and usually those mutants move here, if they can, because unlike _some_ places, Finland embraces _all_ mutations. We _love_ that sort of stuff, and we respect the boundaries of people who need different ones because of their powers. But the ones who can’t come, or think they can’t, usually they… kill themselves. But if you could go to nearest hospital, and get an, an injection, or something, to tone it down- that would be really beneficial. But all it would take would be one of those ‘human rights activists’ who think _no one_ should have mutations, or someone who wanted a bunch of mutants of one _specific_ power, to abuse it. Like- I can shapeshift, into just about anything, and so can a lot of other Finns; and I know there are foreigners who pay a _lot_ of money for the services of a Finnish shapeshifter.”

Piitros hesitated to ask, but he wanted to know.

“ _Is_ anyone working on a mutation override formula?”

Doctor Conochvars smiled, completely without mirth.

“It’s being tested _right now._ ”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up to the sun through his windows, Piitros was beginning to regret not going to a healer the night before, after he and Doctor Conochvars had finished talking, _just_ to make sure.  The bite was gone, and the swelling was non-existent.  But there was something wrong.  He felt almost as if he was pinned, like the one time that he had accidentally gotten trapped in a bottle while running around as a mouse.

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Piitros tried to shapeshift – and couldn’t.

Of course he couldn’t.

“Stupid instinctive self-preservation,” Piitros grumbled, pulling his clothes on.  He had probably gotten some little infection from the spider bite, and it had been enough to trigger his mutation’s self-preservation, which wouldn’t allow him to shift until he was healthy again. Great.  Now he was trapped as a clumsy human being until the infection was dealt with.

And he couldn’t even go straight to a healer’s place, because he had Morning Court, and a meeting with Uncle Benham before that.

Scowling at himself in the mirror as he straightened his collar, Piitros pulled the last of his clothes into place and left the room.

By the time he had gotten to the back room where Uncle Benham waited for him, Piitros had a pounding headache and an aching back.  Uncle Benham was waiting patiently, his hands hanging loosely at his sides as he stared out one of the wide glass windows.  In any other person, such a stance would be incredibly impolite.  In Uncle Benham, it was the remains of the constantly wary life of a Sarmatian warrior.

Piitros often wondered what it was like for Uncle Benham.  Uncle Benham had spent the first nineteen years of his life as a Sarmatian warrior, and had never so much as stood inside a permanent building until the day he met Piitros' Aunt Mei.  Piitros had been born and raised a Finn, and he still had troubles with propriety. The fact that Uncle Benham was simply seen as "eccentric," and not "barbaric," was a downright miracle.

Though, it’s not like you really _wanted_ to say something unkind about a Sarmatian, never mind one married to the woman in charge of Finland in all but name.

Standing in front of the window, hands ever-ready to snatch his ever-present swords, Uncle Benham was not the type of person one might guess to see in a Finnish Court.  Only the blend of green and gold in his surcoat could tell an outsider that Uncle Benham was, in fact, Finnish royalty.  The stance, weapons, red teeth when he spoke, and intricate gold and iron Tree-of-Life earrings said that he was Sarmatian.

“Uncle Benham?”  Piitros stepped slowly into the room.  “How was your morning?”

“Slow,” Uncle Benham said shortly, turning to face him.  “Ennig gave birth before the sun rose, and Tarrig was too busy fawning over Ennig’s child to go on my circuit.  I had to go without my morning ride, and our border riders along the Raaga River didn’t call in, so I had to send two of my best men to Raaga to find out if the Turks are pressing the border again.”

Piitros frowned.  “Ennig and Tarrig are your horses, right?”

“Until the end of my life or theirs,” Uncle Benham agreed.  “How was your morning?”

Piitros looked at the floor.  “I’ve been feeling a bit ill.  I was wondering if I could skip Morning Court, if –”

“Piitros.”

Piitros felt his cheeks flush at that tone.  “Yes?”

Uncle Benham shook his head.  “You have tried this before, Piitros.  But you have a gift.  You were born in a position to do so much good, but you want to simply let it flow away like blood in a river.”

“I know,” Piitros groused.  “When you married Aunt Mei, you thought that you’d just focus on being Vanspag of Ruirig, but she showed you that you had more responsibilities.  Now you practically run the criminal system, protect the borders, and take care of the poor.”

Uncle Benham tapped the hilt of the sword on his left hip.  “All men are born of the same clay, with the blood of Thagimasadag running in their veins. Thus are we each gods, should we find our strength. If we are gifted strength, to ignore it is to spurn those gods who gave them to us. It was given to us to use for the sake of others. We are not better, no matter what you may be told. We are guardians, made to fight for the sakes of those without our gifts. Because they are of the same source as we - clay and the blood of the gods.”

“The Epic of Stasig,” Piitros recognized the phrase.  “You gave it to me for my last birthday.”

Uncle Benham sighed.  “Just that – do you realize how difficult it was to commission for that Epic to be written down in Finnish?  How do you think I did that?”

Piitros blinked, rubbing that slowly fading ache in his neck.  “Um.  I mean.  People will write stuff.  Translate stuff.  I guess…I hadn’t thought.”

“No,” Uncle Benham sighed.  “You may not have chosen to be royalty, Piitros, but whether you believe in gods as the creators or science or both, you were born as a prince, and you have a responsibility to your people given to you at birth.  I made the mistake of thinking that watching my example would be enough, but you don’t really feel it, do you?  You’re too focused on wishing to go to Alexandria.”

Piitros sighed.  “I’m sorry, Uncle Benham, it’s just –”

“I’m not going to forbid you from going to Alexandria,” Uncle Benham said shortly, fingering his swords.  “The problem is, we can’t let you go so far away until we can be certain that you understand what is at stake, right here.”

Piitros focused.  “Wait – you mean that you’re going to allow me to go to Alexandria?”

“We intended to do so years ago,” Uncle Benham said.  “But you refused to take responsibility for your position, so we couldn’t trust that you would in Alexandria.  When you started making some effort last summer, I began to plan your trip.  I was hoping that, by this coming summer, you would have learned enough responsibility to go.”

Piitros brightened.  “You mean –”

“I mean that, if you have managed to truly learn responsibility by the beginning of the summer season, your Aunt Mei and I have agreed to send you to Alexandria for two years.”

Benham smiled suddenly, widely, the way Piitros knew meant he’d thought of joke.

“After all, are we Judeans? We have no backlog of extraneous heirs for the taking, if you follow their example and refuse to leave the city limits ever again once you get to Alexandria!”

“I wouldn’t abandon you and Aunt Mei like that,” Piitros protested. “I’d only ever stay away if- if me staying in Finland was putting you in danger! I _know_ I’m bad at etiquette, I can’t write a proper letter, I can’t stand being focused on all the time because it makes me worried I’ll mess up and then I get nervous and then I _do_ , solemnity makes me want to lighten the mood, I do best when I’m stuck in a room doing paperwork! You and Aunt Mei would be completely within propriety to have me struck from the succession and replaced with someone else! No one would even care, the Courts would be glad they didn’t have to suffer through my presence any longer-”

His uncle silenced him by putting a hand behind his nephew’s head and pulling him down to kiss his forehead.

“And why would we do that, hm?” he asked. “I know you can be good at this, Piitros- you would not have been put in the position to have so much power and responsibility if you could not handle it. Argimpasa does not ascribe the fates of men idly; no more than Api ever made a human who could not withstand the world.

“ _‘And never did Seppo Ilmarinen craft a soul that was not strong, or worthy, or wanted’_ ,” Piitros quoted, still unconvinced.

“Just so,” Benham agreed, putting a hand on his arm to guide him towards the door, and along to the Morning Court. “And, Piitros- who would we replace you with, if you did go?”

This, he had answer for.

“Cousin Naomi,” he said immediately. He’d met the Princess of the Vikings only twice in person- once during the coronation of her mothers in Ibernís, and a second time when she passed through Finland on her way to Japan; but years of exchanging letters had left him _certain_ that the only solution to his troubles was for Naomi to take his place in the succession, so he would be free to go to Alexandria- which, in a ‘be careful what you wish for’ way, he was now going to do; except he’d have to come _back,_ no more suited for the job than before.

“She’s the daughter of our Princess,” Piitros continued. “Even if our Princess hasn’t set _foot_ in Finland, and she’s _good_ at etiquette and all the things you need for Court. She’s older, she’s experienced, she’s talented, she’s distinguished, she’s dignified- and it solves our royalty problem!”

They were almost to the door.

“It hasn’t been working, having a joint ruler for Finland and the Vikings- we _knew_ it was never going to work, but Antona only had one child and then Valdir only had Eydís, but Eydís has Zohar _and_ Naomi! Zohar is _obviously_ going to be the next King of the Vikings, so if you make Naomi Princess of the Finns, then everyone goes away hap-”

Benham had just started to open the door and Piitros was suddenly slammed with a feeling of _danger **dangerDANGER!**_ that he had no explanation for, but made him jerk away to the side of the door, which meant that Heimrikh Ásbjarn’s first knife thrust didn’t connect and he came lunging, rather surprised, into the room right between Piitros and Benham.    

-

The unrelenting foreign foreboding pressure, the strange strong sense of **_DANGER!_** kept Piitros backing up, away Heimrikh and his uncle, Heimrikh with the knife and his moments of stumbling to catch himself, to not fall face-first into the floor as Benham drew his swords went for the first strike.

Piitros knew about sword fighting, more by sight than practice, but it was enough to know that his uncle’s sword shouldn’t twist away from Heimrikh like it had- he knew enough physics to tell. The answer came to him immediately, remembered from discussion and paperwork, because Finns would never let a mutation get away from them.

“Moderate telekinesis!” he called to his uncle; and presumably the man had heard or perhaps he had figured it out himself, from experience practicing against the Palace Guard, whose powers were the first line of defense.

The first sword had been somewhat a distraction, meant to wound if connected, but not to be a major loss if blocked. The second sword, unseen by Heimrikh or simply too much for him to handle, sliced through his side, just under the ribs. Heimrikh was still unbalanced, and had sacrificed using his telekinesis to steady himself to deflect the sword. The blow sent him staggering to the floor.

Why had Heimrikh thought he could fight a Sarmatian, even in an ambush? Who brought a knife to a sword fight?

Heimrikh must have landed on his knife because he was trying to get his hands on something underneath him, and Benham was above him with swords ready, he would pin Heimrikh to the floor and then the Palace Guard would get him, find out why he-

It was a sidearm, a tiny pistol, small enough to be easily hidden and the barrel had vents that glowed dusky dirty smoky blue and it ate through his uncle’s chest, devouring flesh and ribs and organs. Halfway to his knees Heimrikh’s telekinesis pushed him up and away and Benham the Sarmatian, Duke of Estia and Livia, was dead on the floor and Heimrikh Asbjarn was out the door and- and-

Piitros was trying to react- he was.

But his uncle was dead and it hadn’t been, it hadn’t even been a minute since Piitros had been insisting Cousin Naomi should be Princess of the Finns and-

Heimrikh was escaping. The strange pistol hadn’t made much noise and he _might_ get stopped and questioned about why he was running and why he was bleeding but it would be too easy for the man to lie and say someone had attacked _him_ and send any guards running _away_ from him but Piitros knew better and he needed to be _fast-_

He tried to shift, he tried lioness and horse and hyena for speed and strength but _nothing,_ even when it was conceivable that emotional distress and pure personal need could override a biological safety lock, it was a well-documented phenomenon, so Piitros was left with human speed and human strength and his uncle’s swords, grabbed as a prelude to the pursuit.

-

 _Heikaal_ was one of those words language students _hated,_ because context was everything. The Finns had gotten it from the Judeans, where _hekal_ was used for Solomon’s Palace on the Temple Mount as well as the temple itself. The Finns had empathized with the twin royal and divine associations for their own rulers, the descendants of Sikkin Pirkkje and Loki of Asgard- and so there was Vanha Heikaal, the Old Palace, in Taivaskaavelija, the old capitol; and Vaheisia Heikaal, the Minor Court, in Raajokin; and Revontulet Heikaal, the Palace of the Northern Lights, the Greater Court, the newest capitol.

 _Heikaal_ was translated as ‘court’ by Finnish scholars and ‘palace’ by foreign ones- but Heimrikh, who was forced to abandon his original, inconspicuous exit plan in the wake of the mess Benham the Sarmatian had made of his assassination, was bitterly convinced that the proper translation should be ‘fortress’.

Vaheisia Heikaal had exactly one entrance and exit, a two-gate system that emptied onto the Palace Bridge over the Raa to the City Plaza, one gate directly at the end of the bridge that opened into an enclosed courtyard, a little bubble made by drawing the wall back a ways. The much smaller Inner Gate was set in the wall opposite the main gate on the bridge, and it was the best chance Heimrikh had, even if it wasn’t much of one.

The space between the Court Hall and the Inner Gate was wide open, completely paved and empty of cover. He tried not to stagger too much, tried not to look like he was trying not to be noticed, but he had to keep pressure on his wound and there were blood droplets oozing past his fingers, and he wasn’t about to let go of his gun yet, just in case. It was easy enough to hide-

Unless the guards you were trying to get past were Finnish guards, selected for powers useful for fighting and protection. As per regulations, one of the guards on the palace side of the Inner Gate was an intention-seer, and a single look told him Heimrikh was fleeing a murder. Also per regulations, the other guard on duty on the ground was a shapeshifter.

Heimrikh cursed violently to himself and started to run, trying to outdistance the bear charging at him. He veered away from the gates and into the Diplomat’s Garden, hoping that the trees and human-sized walking paths would slow the guard down some, or at least force her to take a new, slightly less dangerous shape.

This proved not to be the case and soon enough Heimrikh was close to being cornered against the wall, the bear guard holding in place while those still human-shaped came to finally subdue him, but Heimrikh could _not_ let that happen and so forced himself to stand his ground, waiting for the bear to get just a little closer, a little closer, and finally it was enough for a shot from the pistol that couldn’t be avoided, and the guard went down with the blue burning through her skull and Heimrikh was dashing up the stairs to the wall.

Here, he had to drop his gun to get a free hand to use as an aid to his telekinesis, shoving the two guards converging on him away and down the wall walkway. There was a moment when he caught up against the edge of the wall, staring down at the blue of the Raa- but this part was _easy._ The walls around Byzantium were higher, and unlike the Bosporus, the section of the Raa that curved around the palace complex had no traffic.

Heimrikh shoved himself over the edge, battering divebombing Palace Guards in the shape of birds against the stone walls the whole way down.

-

When Piitros got to the Inner Gate, it was nothing but turmoil and consternation. Everyone seemed to be rushing for the Diplomat’s Garden, or were herding people into buildings-

 _“Open the gate!”_ he yelled ahead at the few guards still on duty.

“My Royal Highness-” one of the guards tried to say.

“Grand Duke Benham has been _assassinated,_ ” Piitros snapped at them, pointing back towards the Court Hall. “And his assassin is _escaping. Open. The. Gate._ ”

They let him through, and some went off to locate the Grand Duke’s body.

Piitros charged across the Palace Bridge, shoving through the abnormally crowded space between the City Gate Wall and the City Palace to burst into the City Plaza, seeing the Etsijaanoidat Office rising above him and the Artisan’s Union towards the river and the green copper roof and dark gray stone of Loki’s Temple on the bank by the Grand Bridge and the City Guard office going up in arms but _not_ Heimrikh Asbjarn.

He dashed through the space between the Etsijaanoidat Office and the Artisan’s Union to look into the City Market, and people were pulling away from his swords and his green and gold and there were crowds here but Finnish etiquette was holding sway and the entire place was starting to focus on him, the deference and _wait,_ they were all paying attention to him.

One of the overseers from the Currency Official’s office was more than happy to give up his small viewing platform to his Duke.

“I’m looking for the man who killed Grand Duke Benham!” Piitros called over the crowd, and a wail went up. He may have not quite fit at court, but to the Finnish people, the Grand Duke was even more beloved than their Grand Duchess. “A rich Byzantine named Heimrikh Asbjarn, a moderate telekinetic! He’s been slashed on his left side-”

 “My-” was as far as the overseer whose place Piitros had taken got before Piitros turned in the direction the man was pointing, towards the Grand Bridge, and saw a distant figure hurrying towards the Raajokin Cemetery Isle. Piitros was off after him in a moment, without a thank-you, rushing for the bridge and howling furiously inside-

_Why can’t I **shift!**_

-

Doctor Conrad Conochvars had spent the night restless and unable to really sleep, and the morning since Heimrikh had left to finish his plan pacing, facing up to some very unpleasant truths.

Heimrikh would be captured, that he was sure of, whether he succeeded in the assassination or not. Even if the Palace Guard didn’t get him immediately, it would only be a matter of time. He himself, of course, would be under intense suspicion because of the association.

The inside of a Finnish cell in Revontulent Heikaal was sufficiently remote and secure, Conochvars reasoned. He could tell all there, where he’d be safe.

The Palace Guard rang the lockdown alarms at about the time Morning Court was to assemble, the stones of every edifice ringing _rrahng-rrahng-rrahng_ and the air thrumming _whumm-whumm-whumm,_ the doors slamming shut and melding with the walls. Conochvars was in the hallway at the time, and through the window saw Piitros Pirkkje go through the gate, armed with his uncle’s Sarmatian swords.

The Duke was alive, and running for the city with the Grand Duke’s swords-

Oh no.

 _Heimrikh, how can you always make a bad situation **so much worse?**_ he lamented to himself, and jumped through the window.

He landed in a shower of broken glass. The Palace Guards nearby stared at him, shocked, as they leveled weapons and powers- but Conochvars pushed through them, dashing across the paved area to scale the Inner Gate and run across the top of the wall, dropping off onto the Palace Bridge on the other side, scenting the air as he headed for the City Plaza.

The blood was easy to smell, the stronger scent of Heimrikh’s wound, the weaker the traces of his blood on the Grand Duke’s sword, mixed with the lingering traces of the serum from the spider, now almost fully absorbed into Piitros’s systems.

People in the City Plaza were falling over each other to get out of his way, and the City Guard were more interested in evacuating people than dealing with him, though he had to jump over a band who tried to stop him by the Artisan’s Union, and clamber on some of the cables supporting the Grand Bridge to stay away from them. The scent was leading him over the river and to the Cemetery Isle, right towards Sarmatia.

-

The Cemetery Isle wasn’t _really_ an island. It was required that Finnish burial grounds be encircled by water and set apart from any living settlements- islands were ideal, but usually, this was accomplished by picking a large spot outside of town, digging a ditch around it, and filling it with water.

In Raajokin, the cemetery was the sole piece of Finnish-owned land on the east bank of the Raa river. Heimrikh was clutching at the statue to Sleipnir, gasping, trying to catch his breath as he stared down at the trench about a foot in front of him that connected the main body of the Raa on the west side of the cemetery to the inlet on the east side. This river-filled trench was the visible boundary between Finnish and Sarmatian lands.

No one, as far as Heimrikh could tell, had followed him successfully out of the palace; and if anyone had, they would have been good Finns and stopped in at Hela’s Temple to do the proper ritual purifications before they _dared_ set foot in the cemetery-

_“Heimrikh Asbjarn!”_

It was the _Duke._

Of course, of course, he cursed as he pushed himself forward, off the statue, to wade as quickly as possible through the trench. Of _course_ the only Finn who would follow him through the cemetery without stopping for _ritual_ and _decorum_ would be the one who was most uncomfortable with it all, the one who couldn’t do it properly even when he _tried!_ The one he was supposed to have _killed!_

The Sarmatian side of the river wasn’t bare, exactly, because the Finns had yearly logging rights in the fall to keep the approach to their city clear. It was in the best interests of the Finns and the Sarmatians to prevent anyone from trying to use the forest as trees for sneaking in- plus, the Finns got half the wood for their work and the right to a spring trade caravan through Sarmatian territory to Byzantium. It was a longstanding agreement, but it meant there was little cover.

There was movement at the top of one of the hills, a lone rider- Heimrikh gritted his teeth and told himself to ignore the newcomer. He’d already killed one Sarmatian today, and he could kill another, but only _after_ he dealt with Piitros Pirkkje.

There was a copse of trees near the foot of the hill. If he could just get in it, and levitate himself up to a branch-

He’d left his stiletto in the room where the Grand Duke had died, and his gun was lost somewhere in the Diplomat’s Garden. But there was still his dirk, strapped under his court robes.

It would easy enough to drop on Piitros Pirkkje from above and slit his throat.

-

_“Heimrikh Asbjarn!”_

Piitros stumbled, not for the first time – the ground felt uneven under his feet, and every breath scraped harshly through his throat.  He had been feeling better before, but now he felt _terrible_ but Heimrikh was getting away and he had killed – killed –

He could just see him, up ahead, that _murderer_ who thought that he could _get away_ –

His feet kept sticking strangely as Piitros tried to stay upright he was going to kill him _why couldn’t he SHIFT_ –

_He couldn’t breathe the air warped strangely he was was was was was –_

_A flash of green –_

**_I take care of my own._ **

Piitros blinked – or did he?  He wasn’t certain that he had eyelids anymore, which meant that he had _finally_ managed to shapeshift, but what _was_ he?  He had been trying for lethal, but the world was _huge_ and

 _Heimrikh_ was _right there_ and _huge_ –

Piitros lashed out and _bit_ – (and thought _so I’m something that bites_?)

He was tiny and had lots of legs and was – venomous?

The animal part of himself, the side that sprang up to help him with natural animal functions, flickered with _toocoldthisplaceistoocold_ and something vicious like _die_ but then –

Something slammed into his face –

And everything went black.

-

The trail Heimrikh and Piitros had left was easy enough to follow, but when Piitros’s abruptly ended at a tree, the Grand Duke’s swords embedded in a branch above, well-

It was logical for Conrad Conochvars to assume that he’d been too late. And he truly thought he had, for a moment, except that once he broke through the line of the copse of trees the Finns had left to grow and into the stand of saplings and broken-up stumps, he found Piitros again, lying sprawled half over the remains of maple tree and some crushed spruce saplings.

There was relief for half a moment, but then a telepathic shove that had him dancing for footing as Heimrikh yelled at him, threatening him with his father, with his past, with his work-

The _whizz-thwock_ of an arrow embedding itself in his side was more important.

Conochvars caught the scent of horse and human and the fast dull vibrating _th-thud_ of charging hooves and he avoided the Sarmatian’s sword, easy to do by sinking his teeth into the horse’s neck and letting his weight and momentum pull it down, off-balance, and the horse screamed and started to die, the hot blood simply _right._

When he pulled himself free of the dead animal the horse’s rider was a bloody mess, first crushed by his mount, then torn up by tree remains and the tearing Conochvars had done to whatever flesh had been in his way.

Piitros was stirring; and Sarmatians were pouring over the hill ridgeline.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Gwenig Vainkag Stasig squinted out into the rising sun as Tagspapiig huffed at her shoulder. 

"Good morning, darling," Gwen sang, ruffling her mare's mane. "Did you sleep well? Because it looks like it's going to be a lovely day for a ride."

Swinging out of her family wagon, Gwen kissed her mare on the nose. "It looks like Father already left for the morning, so why don't you go out and eat while I do?"

Tagspapiig whuffled again, and meandered off a little ways from the wagon circle.  Still smiling, Gwen headed over to the nearest fire. 

"Good morning, Little Mother."

The elderly woman crouched over a bubbling pot of grain looked up, and smiled, baring still-strong red teeth. "You're up late, Gwenig. Long night?"

Gwen grabbed a bowl and filled it quickly. "Now, Little Mother, you would know nearly as well as I if I had invited a man under the wagon."

The older woman cackled. "Now, Gwenig, how are ever going to be a Little Mother yourself, if you don't dance with a stallion or two?"

Gwen just shook her head, eating as she walked away. She knew why people kept asking - neither of her parents had any other children, and her numerous cousins had shown no signs of special leadership qualities or fighting ability. 

In fact, in the last four fighting tournaments, Gwen had flattened thirty-eight of her cousins, and had outright killed a thirty-ninth. 

Shaking her head, Gwen swabbed the last of the boiled grain from her bowl with some milk-soaked buccellum. She was happy as a warrior - most women her age still hadn't killed more than two men, anyway, and thus weren't even thinking about having children. 

Well, except for women who were only mothers, or only priestesses. 

Frowning slightly, Gwen tossed her empty bowl in the wagon, and grabbed her saddle. She technically qualified as a priestess. She could scry the present from a distance, could chant and sing all of the songs, and could purify a wagon or a haunted person. But that wasn't where her heart lay. 

Strapping her extra sword to her side for the time being, Gwen began the trek to find Tagspapiig. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time Gwen had brushed Tagspapiig and settled the saddle and her sword on Tagspapiig's back. They were heading back to the wagon circle, Gwen chewing on stain-berry, when Tagspapiig suddenly stopped, her ears going back and her nostrils flaring. 

"Hé-huff!" Tagspapiig barked, her legs planted. That was a singular reaction, one that every Sarmatian knew deep in their soul. 

Lizard. 

Gwen leapt into the saddle, pulling out her bow. 

"Hi-yeeeee!" She shrieked. "LIZARD!  White Horse Team, we head east!  Lizard!  Hi-yeeeeee!"

As they barreled into the encampment, children and mothers scattered. Lizards were serious business. 

Hundreds of years ago, a sorcerer by the name of Téodoro had decided to conquer Sarmatia, and had brought with him the great Lizards of Ægypta. The Lizards couldn't bear the cold, though, so the sorcerer had used magic to make them able to live in the white winters of Sarmatia. 

What Téodoro did not know was that a priestess of the Stasig could call fire from the skies. His conquest was destroyed, but the Lizards still lurked in the lakes, caves, and rivers. As centuries passed, the Lizards bred, and the best efforts of the Sarmatian tribes could not quite wipe them out. 

Gwen had spent her adult life killing Lizards - starting with the one that had killed her mother.   
Between Tagspapiig and Gwenig Vainkag Stasig, no Lizard would survive into the next century. 

And as the White Horse Team drew in to follow their lead, Gwen felt a feral grin bare her shuriig teeth. With her bow taut and her arrow waiting, the next crest would reveal her target - a Lizard. 

“Hold!” she roared, lifting her bow.  Standing beside the (strangely immobile) Lizard was a boy – a sorcerer?  Another was flying away – she shot two arrows after the coward, and then turned to focus on the still immobile Lizard.

Her heart keened.  Torn to shreds, as if he were any other victim of a particularly ferocious Lizard, was her father.

Gwen aimed, her world narrowed to a point –

And the Lizard suddenly shrank down and became a human.

An arrow thudded to the ground beside the no-longer-Lizard, which meant that _somebody_ had been shaken from proper aim by this transformation.

Gwen felt nothing.  Her arrow flew cleanly.

“Wait!”

The boy shoved the not-Lizard to the side, saving the sorcerer from certain death.  Gwen’s arrow slashed the sorcerer’s shoulder, but otherwise merely made a deep hole in the dirt beside him.

The boy spoke soft-speak, the tongue of the city-folk to the east, so Gwen responded in kind.

“How dare you!” she snapped.  “You protect an evil greater than any other alive today – what sorcerer are you?  And if you are no sorcerer, move aside!  For this Lizard owes me blood-price for my father!”

Behind her, Gwen could hear one of her warriors translating for those who had never bothered with soft-speak.

The boy shook his head wildly.  “I am not a sorcerer!” he shouted.  More sedately, he said, “But Doctor Conochvars has saved my life.  I’m sure that he never intended to kill – ah – your father.  And – ah – he’s not a sorcerer either.  Doctor Conrad Conochvars is a highly celebrated _scientist_.”

Gwen dismounted, stashing her bow and drawing her favorite sword.  Scowling, she stalked up to the city-boy.

Underneath the ridiculous amount of layers that was common to the city-folk, the boy was the size of an unfinished child – scrawny and pale and generally the shape of one who has never exerted himself.  With the point of her sword under his chin, he reverted to childhood – his dark eyes were wide with fear.  But underneath that fear was something else…

“Very well,” Gwen spat harshly, her sword still propping up the boy’s chin.  “If you know so much, city-boy, then say how it is that he should pay the blood price – life for a life – without my removing his head.”

The boy looked as if he would rather be anywhere other than there.  But still, under the terror, there was something that made Gwen want to…she didn’t know what it made her want to do, but it wasn’t kill him or disregard him.

“W-well wouldn’t he pay more if he gave his life in servitude, instead of wasting his strength and abilities by simply dying here?”  The longer she allowed the boy to speak, the less nervous he sounded.

Gwen pulled her sword away.  “You argument makes sense,” she allowed.  And then she saw it – that something that she was trying to identify.

Even in the face of a band of Stasig warriors, with Gwen’s sword only just removed from his throat, the boy had something fierce and defiant in his eyes.  Something that was only ever seen in the best of warriors, the ones who would ride to their deaths to protect their tribe.

“Eilig!” she shouted.  “Head back to camp and bring High Priestess Maraaja to decide if this man’s forfeited life should be paid in blood or work.”

She didn’t need to turn to know that some of her band were uncertain.  Only the Vanspag had the right to call the High Priestess.

But the thud of hoofbeats told her that Eilig had obeyed.  She was, at least for the moment, the Vanspag of Stasig.

She would cry about it later, at her father’s burial.

For now, she had to be like her sword – strong, cold, and sharp.

While she waited, she refocused on the boy.  “Boy,” she said sharply, “you gave us the name of the forfeited life, but not your own.  How are you called?”

The boy’s chin went up.  “Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje, _Duke_ of Finland.”  He paused.  “And Estia and Livia.”

 _Duke_ meant Warlord, only you didn’t have to be a warrior (Gwen would never understand that one).  But while “Finland” was just the name of the not-so-bad city-folk, she knew the place-names Estia and Livia.  Ruirig might have mostly disappeared into “Finland” and her own tribe, but she knew that the Vanspag was Benhamanaag, who the city-folk called “Duke of Estia and Livia.”

“Benhamanaag Vanspag Ruirig is dead?”  Gwen felt as if someone had pulled the ground from under her feet.  “Who dared kill the Vanspag Ruirig?  And who are you to claim his name?”

Piitros’ cheeks darkened the tiniest bit with pink.  “He was my _uncle_ ,” he said.  With a _terrible_ accent, he clarified in the True-Tongue.  “My mother’s sister’s beloved.”  Switching back to soft-speak, he answered her other question.  “Heimrikh Asbjarn killed him – that’s the man who was flying away.”

 _Hemriig!_ Gwen barely managed to keep her fury in check.  Seriously?  Benhamanaag Vanspag Ruirig had been killed by a _boy_?  And a boy whose name was “snowflake?”

“Vanspag!”

Gwen turned, somewhat relieved at the interruption, to see Maraaja riding up on Adanaga alongside Eilig.

“Eilig told you what must be done?” Gwen demanded.

Maraaja dismounted smoothly from Adanaga.  “Yes.  I will scry it.”

Gwen smiled gratefully – while the two of them would likely never be great friends or lovers, Maraaja was fiercely loyal to those she valued.  Gwen was thankful to be one of those precious few.

Behind her, Gwen heard Piitros swallow hard.  Gwen took a moment to look at Maraaja, trying to see what might have scared or startled the city-boy. 

Maraaja was short by Stasig standards, and had numerous braids of gorgeous Sraniig-red hair instead of the more practical hair ties of a warrior.  She was not wearing any armor, and had refrained from wearing her bow and quiver.  For a priestess, she was rather over-dressed, wearing leggings to her knees, sandals on her feet, and a leather breastband for comfortable riding.

In short, there was nothing particularly alarming about her.

Maraaja pulled out her mirror, and bit her thumb with the ease of practice, smearing the symbol for knowledge across her mirror.  After a moment of dead silence, Maraaja began to make a high keening noise, rocking on her heels.

Gwen restrained herself.  Maraaja was always a bit alarming when she had a true vision, instead of simply catching a glimpse of the past or future.  Instead of moving, Gwen concentrated on the mirror – the symbol faded into the shimmering surface, and Maraaja gave one last keen before growing quiet.

Blood spilled from Maraaja’s nose, and Maraaja refocused on the people surrounding her.  Ritually, she knelt to the ground, rubbing dirt on the mirror.

“Vanspag, he will live,” Maraaja said hoarsely.  “The gods will it.  He will pay in sweat and not in blood.  So is decreed, so shall be, and those who transgress will answer to Oitosyrig and Argimpasa and Agin.”

“Witnessed,” Gwen said numbly.  She would have to let her father’s killer live.  On the positive side, Maraaja had declared her Vanspag right out of a vision, which meant that the amount of challengers she would get would likely be halved.

“Right,” she said sharply.  “Back to camp.  Eilig, Naanat, you stand guard over the nameless one until we can sort out who he shall serve and how.  Piitros, you ride with me.  I will answer challenges at noon.”

“Witnessed,” the entire White Horse Team chorused.

Gwen swung up onto Tagspapiig, and yanked Piitros up in front of her.  “Hold on, city-boy,” she said.

They had a long and bloody day ahead of them.  Challenges, Gwen knew very well, were to the death.

-

Piitros had kept firm hold of his uncle’s swords during the near-confrontation with the Sarmatians; which now that he thought about it, was terrifyingly reckless. He knew better than to think that he could take on a Sarmatian- and it would be second nature to a Sarmatian to assume that, if he had swords, he knew what he was doing with them.

The Sarmatian riders had brought him and Doctor Conochvars into camp and deposited them in a large wagon- the two who had been ordered to watch the Doctor, Eilig and Naanat, had all but thrown the man into the back, and were currently sitting inside it warily, watching Doctor Conochvars semi-cower against the back wall.

This arrangement didn’t leave a lot of room for anyone else within, so Piitros found himself being sat down on the edge of the open side by the priestess he didn’t feel particularly comfortable looking at. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was inappropriate to look at someone wearing so few clothes. How did she stay warm?

He held his uncle’s swords between his knees and kept his hands on the hilts. There was some sort of orderly commotion beginning, and he focused on listening carefully to try following what was happening. The lead warrior, the one the priestess had addressed as Vanspag _,_ was gearing up for her ritual challenges.

That was… odd. Usually no one challenged the Warlord without a very good reason, and it had certainly seemed like the warriors she’d had with her were perfectly willing to follow her orders. Perhaps it was a custom of this particular tribe.

“Priestess,” he said, putting on his best calm, respectful Finnish manners tone and looking her firmly in the eye so he could keep up the polite mental fiction he’d constructed that she was wearing the standard four layers of Finnish dress. “What tribe is this?”

“Stasig,” the priestess told him. She seemed very amused, for some reason.

Probably she’d noticed he was stiffly ignoring her sartorial state, Piitros decided morosely. And he _knew_ about Tribe Stasig- they and his uncle’s Tribe, Ruirig, occupied the territory immediately along the Finnish border. Ruirig had migrated almost wholesale to Estia and Livia when his uncle had been titled, the only ones staying behind those who had close family or friend ties to Stasig.

Somewhere in here, he probably had family.

“Why are they challenging the Vanspag?” he asked. “I had thought challenges only came when it was time to choose a new adult for the position.”

“Gwenig is not recognized as Vanspag yet,” the priestess told him. “But she will be, before the day is out. The one the Lizard-Man killed was her father, the old Vanspag Stasig. Now, we simply let the fools with an inflated sense of their own worth and ability batter themselves to death against our new Vanspag’s sword.”

Doctor Conochvars had killed a Sarmatian Warlord.

They were in so, _so_ much trouble.

The mental state Piitros found himself in, thinking about what could be in store for them once the ritual challenges were done, was _not_ helped by watching Gwenig Vanspag Stasig systematically destroy the few who tried to oppose her on the battle ground. Their deaths were unpleasantly similar to what Piitros was conjuring up for himself.

After the first two deaths, he dropped his eyes to his hands and started reciting the _Totuuksiataru_ , the Finnish mythology cycle, under his breath to distract himself.

“ _‘In the first time of all things there is the Void, and within the Void is Lintukoto, what the Vikings in their heathen ways call Vanaheim; and in Lintukoto there lives Seppo Ilmarinen and the Frija-bird, the Great Artisan and the First Bird-’_ ”

He had worked through the creation of the Eight Dimensions, the laying of the Moon-Sun Egg and the formation of Earth, and was up to Frija convincing Odin to place Loki’s children on Earth rather than have them killed when the challenges ended. Piitros watched as the priestess who’d been sitting with him cut the ritual tear-track scars into Gwenig’s face to mark her new status as Vanspag, and Gwenig’s subsequent passage through a bonfire to confirm the appointment, silently appealing to Sikkin Pirkkje and Queen Frija to grant his aunt a vision-dream if the Sarmatians had him killed so she would know to sacrifice to his spirit alongside his uncle’s, so they could both stay in Hela’s Court together and retain the integrity of their souls.

The first order of business Gwenig Vanspag Stasig saw fit to dispense was, evidently, them. She was striding towards him, her new scars still red and healing, the priestess drifting along behind. Piitros debated standing, and before he could decide, the issue was decided for him.

Gwenig loomed over him.

“You will explain,” she demanded.

 _Loki Laivisi, Silvertongue, Grandfather and Great Prince- please,_ Piitros pleaded. _Help me not say the wrong thing._

“I am not entirely certain what occurred, Gwenig Vanspag Stasig,” he said cautiously, aiming to sound apologetic. Maybe he wouldn’t get hurt if he seemed harmless and pathetic- she’d already decided he was ‘city-boy’, after all. It shouldn’t be that hard. “I merely pursued my uncle’s murderer. I did not have time to interrogate him.”

  Gwenig seemed slightly taken aback by the fact he knew the proper form of her full title; or perhaps she was merely stunned at his ability to mangle her language through his accent. Before she could say anything else, Doctor Conochvars called: “I can explain.”

A stern frown, and Gwenig turned her attention to the Sarmatians in the wagon.

“Has he caused any trouble?”

“None, Vanspag,” one of them replied.

“Stay out here,” Gwenig ordered, then looked at Piitros and pointed to the wagon’s interior. “In. Go.”

 Piitros scrambled into the wagon, politely tucking the swords against the wagon wall behind him as he sat down by Doctor Conochvars. Gwenig had unsheathed a knife, and was glaring furiously at Doctor Conochvars in a manner that clearly conveyed that if he made one wrong move, it was going to find a new home inside him. The priestess was the last one into the wagon, and settled herself inside the entrance, blocking the chance of casual nosiness from anyone outside the wagon.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before Piitros discreetly poked Doctor Conochvars with his foot to get him to speak.

“The explanation starts a long time ago,” the Doctor began. “When I wasn’t yet an adult. My family is from the island of Eire, in Viking territory. When I was born, I-”

He gestured at his right arm.

“Didn’t have this. Vikings are supposed to be warriors so that didn’t… turn out very well. I couldn’t fight and I couldn’t do a lot around the house, so I did things I only needed one hand for. Reading. Writing. Carrying things; buckets, mostly. Carrying buckets is dull work, so I had a lot of time to think. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents paid for my schooling mostly so I wouldn’t be at home. I don’t think they wanted me around much.”

Piitros could feel the anger rising, fast. There was _no_ excuse not to love child, to fob one off to strangers, to dismiss them so utterly in mind and body and emotion-

 _“Perhemurhaaja!”_ he cursed Doctor Conochvar’s family under his breath. If only they had been Finnish; and they could have brought down the wrath of the law on anyone who would treat their child so-

“But I was good at school,” Conochvars continued. “So good that the school master thought I should go to Alexandria. He contacted one of his patrons, a Viking who’d made a name for himself in business, in Byzantium. That was Nordmann Ásbjarn- Heimrikh’s father. He came all the way to Eire to see me, and after I passed some tests he’d brought along, he went straight to my parents, told them he was going to have me trained up to work for him, and took me straight away to Alexandria.”

His expression went distant, with just a hint of sorrow.

“It was wonderful, while it lasted. Someone wanted _me,_ and was willing to invest in me _making_ something of myself. I was in Alexandria with the other boy Ásbjarn had scouted-”

Conochvars nodded at Piitros.

“Your father. I probably should have noticed, from the beginning, how… _proprietary_ Ásbjarn was about us. He’d call us for updates every week, and all we would hear about was what he wanted us to do, the projects he was going to have us work on, the great things he was expecting from us- but I didn’t care. Notice. I was in Alexandria, learning, and I was happy. Maybe Rixardos noticed. Maybe that was part of why he left Alexandria with Miiria before completing his Doctorate. When-”

He had to stop, here, and collect himself.

“When Ásbjarn found out that Rixardos had left, he was _furious._ He ranted to me for _hours_ about how Rixardos had betrayed him, abandoned him, thrown away everything he’d been given. I was pushed three times as hard to finish my degree and start working. And I did, because I was too scared he’d cut me off and leave me drifting. I graduated, and then he… it was all- _‘go here, go there; find out what those people are doing, take it for me’_. I- I did a lot of things I shouldn’t have for Nordmann Ásbjarn. Eventually, he-”

Conochvars stopped talking and looked pleadingly at Piitros.

“He made me help him kill your parents.”

It was hard for Piitros to parse exactly what he was feeling right then, because first and foremost was _rage._ Some of it at Doctor Conochvars, but most at Nordmann Ásbjarn; at the man who he knew, now, was responsible for everything.

“Ásbjarn mostly left me alone, after that,” the Doctor went on, hastening past that point of the conversation. “He had enough purloined science and theory to work up a _very_ good supply market for emerging technologies, and even made a few himself- the smaller, simpler ones it would impossible to prove he couldn’t have come up with with his own team of scientists. Then one day, some old acquaintances from Alexandria got in contact with me, seeking my expertise on the project I’d spent my whole life on- the thing I had hoped would grow my arm. Ásbjarn barely even seemed to register my existence, most days, so I went to Franx with them, to finally solve my project. It worked. Much better than I or anyone had ever expected. We had to work out a few things, like the fact that besides growing me an arm, the serum-”

Perhaps he was trying to smile.

“-well, you saw. It granted me a mutant ability, as well. Our team started ranging all over the field with our ideas about what the serum could do. We thought we’d solved every medical problem science could encounter. Then the war started, and we ran. Doctor Bet Yisroel took half of the research to Alexandria, to protect it, and I took my half of the research all the way back to Byzantium, and went back to work for Ásbjarn like nothing had ever happened. I kept the research a secret from him, of course. I thought that was about the end of it- eventually, I thought, Bet Yisroel would contact me, after the war was done, and ask for the rest of the research. I thought that that would be my way out- after the war, he and I and our other partner, Doctor Yinsen, could come out with our findings and produce the serum and sell it and I would _finally_ be out of Ásbjarn’s power. But then I was kidnapped.”

It was quite clear to everyone in the wagon that this was not a set of pleasant memories for Doctor Conochvars.

“They took me right out of my lab in Ásbjarn’s compound. At first I thought they were just that good, but I should have known better about _that,_ too.”

“ _‘They’_?” Piitros asked.

“HYDRA,” Doctor Conochvars told him. “A secret organization, of terrorists and scientists. I don’t know exactly what they’re up to, but they’re involved somehow in the war in Europe, very deeply. They- they tortured me. For information about the serum. I told them, eventually, after they cut off the arm I’d grown myself. They kept me for a while, after I’d given them the information- I realized later it was a set-up. They let me go after they told me that Ásbjarn had been hunting for me, found them, and paid them an exorbitant amount to get me back. I believed it at the time, even believed it right up through the point where Ásbjarn produced the serum- _my_ serum, the project I had never told him about and made sure he could never find the research for- and gave it to me so I would grow the arm back.”

Conochvar’s expression had been getting more and more shamed as he talked. Now, it was fully into abject self-loathing.

“I _honestly **believed**_ that he’d started to change. But then he pulled _exactly_ the same thing he’d always done, and started telling me about how much I owed him- about how he _owned_ me- and said I had to help him kill _you,_ Piitros.”

_“Me?”_

Piitros really no idea how to process that. The fact that someone would think _he_ was worth the time and effort to plot and carry out an assassination- madness. If they wanted him out of the way, all they had to do was wait until he mortally offended someone and was struck from the succession by his aunt in an act of self-preservation, for the good of Finland.

“My extension of the original research for the serum was on repressing mutant abilities,” Doctor Conochvars told him. “I intended it for use for those whose abilities were unfortunately inhibiting- with powers that prevent them from functioning in society.”

The idea of that struck something deep in Piitros, something inherently Finnish, that screamed **_wrong!_** at the pronouncement.

“There is _no_ power that can’t be accommodated!” he insisted heatedly.

“I’ve always admired the lengths the Finns go to to ensure that mutants and magicians can live comfortably,” Conochvars told him. “But what about someone who kills, involuntarily, with the slightest touch? Someone who exudes poison or sickness? What if someone were born with the power to recall the dead? Not everyone is lucky enough to be born in Finland.”

Piitros sat and stewed on the concept. It just _couldn’t_ be that something couldn’t be figured out-

“My extension of the serum solved the biggest problem there was to killing you,” Conochvars continued. “Your shapeshifting. The assassin would have to be extremely skilled and extremely lucky to sneak past the entire palace complex, catch you entirely unawares, and kill you before you had time to notice you were dying and shift instinctively- then sneak out again. But if the modified serum could be delivered to you beforehand, and introduced into your system, the middle parts wouldn’t matter. So Ásbjarn coerced me into producing the dampener serum, threatening to frame me for your parents’ murders, and then gave it to his son to deliver and carry out the assassination. I was to go with him, to provide a cover story, and assist him if the science went wrong, somehow.”

“But he’s alive,” Gwenig said suddenly. “Snowflake failed.”

“But I can still shift,” Piitros added, thinking about the earlier events. “It took a long time, and I’m not sure _what_ I managed, but I did.”

Conochvars chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“It hadn’t been tested before,” he admitted. “It could be that it’s like what happened with the base serum- it achieved the desired result, and gave you something extra. In this case, I suppose, something in return.”

“Why did he want me dead?” Piitros asked after a moment. “I haven’t even ever met him.”

“You’re Rixardos’s child,” Conochvars told him. “That’s enough for Ásbjarn. You’re proof he couldn’t keep him for himself. He’ll want you dead as long as you’re alive.”

Gwenig said something, but Piitros wasn’t paying attention to what. The enormity of the situation had just hit him.

If Ásbjarn wanted him dead, just for existing- and if Uncle Benham had already been killed, just for being near him-

“I can’t go back,” he realized, out loud.

Gwenig stopped talking and stared at him.

“I already got Uncle Benham killed,” Piitros told her. “He died because he was with me; and Ásbjarn wanted me dead. I can’t- If I go back, Aunt Mei will have me with her. The next time someone tries to kill me, it will be _her_ in the way. They could- I can’t risk that. I can’t go back to Finland. I _can’t._ ”

“ _He_ will be staying,” Gwenig said after a while of silence on everyone’s part, pointing at Doctor Conochvars. “He will be my slave, to repay the life-debt he owes me for my father. And _you?_ ”

She looked him up and down, pointedly, derisively. Piitros felt like wilting, sinking into the bed of the wagon and lurking beneath it.

“No _wonder_ they sent Snowflake after you,” she snorted. “You are pathetic and talentless, city-boy. You aren’t going _anywhere_ until you learn how to _use_ those swords you brought with you.”

-

“Up!”

Piitros woke up with a shout.  “What the –!”  Pushing his sopping hair out of his face, Piitros glared at his assailant.  “What did you do that for?”

Gwenig stood over him with a slight sneer on her face.  “One, you are the last person asleep this morning.  I have already done a morning perimeter ride, and gone over duties with the debt-slave.  It is with no wonder that you are such a –”

At this point, she began using words that Piitros had never heard before – although he did catch the words “yellow-face” and “city-boy.”  Gwenig shook her head.  “Two, from now on you wake when I do.  You don’t,” she jerked her chin towards him, “You get a wake-up call.  Three, don’t talk to me in the True Tongue until you learn the proper respectful feminine address for a superior.  I know enough Soft-Speak for you to babble in it.”

Piitros winced.  “I – alright, I can do that, um –”

“Keep your mouth shut,” Gwenig said, stepping back.  “Get your day clothes from the Little Mother outside the wagon.  Meet me by the cattle fences.”

Piitros followed orders as hastily as possible, and took a brief moment to look around before making a beeline for the place that had to be the cattle fence.

Gwenig was leaning against the wooden posts, her hair shining in the still-rising sun.

The moment she caught sight of him, Gwenig tossed something large and wooden in his direction.  Reflexively, Piitros ducked.

Gwenig snorted.  “It’s a toy, city-boy.   A wooden sword.  You’ll start with one, and we’ll go from there.  Now, pick it up and come over here.”

Hesitantly, Piitros picked up the wooden sword.  “What do you want me to do with it?  I don’t know how to –” He stopped short, ducking as Gwenig pulled another wooden sword from…somewhere.

“Defend yourself,” Gwenig said shortly.  “Stop ducking and bring up that sword.  Ducking only works if you can save yourself the other hundred times a sword comes at your head.”

The next time Gwenig brought the sword towards him, Piitros swung upwards with all of his strength.  A loud _thwack_ told him that he had actually managed to block the blow.

And then Gwenig did something with her sword that made his wrists scream in pain, and Piitros found himself reacting by dropping the wooden sword.  “What –?”

Gwenig stepped back, her eyes sharp and focused.  “Good.  You are not a coward.  Now, pick it up again, and we start from the beginning.  Hold the sword straight out in front of you.  Do not let your wrists bow, do not let your arms fall.”

Piitros slowly picked up the sword, and did as ordered.  Already, he could feel a slow trail of sweat trickling down his back.  Standing still, Piitros held the wooden sword and waited.

Gwenig surveyed his stance for a moment, and then began pacing around him.  “Tuck in your backside, you are not a spear-thrower,” she said sharply.  “Head up, you should always look at your enemy, not your sword.  The sword isn’t running away.”

Piitros straightened and lifted his head.  Suddenly, he realized that, with his head up, he was taller than Gwenig.

Odd.  She seemed so very much larger than life, but he was nearly a head taller than she was.

“Focus!” Gwenig snapped.  “Letting your heart wander will bring you death and defeat.”

Piitros swallowed hard.  His arms were beginning to burn with the effort of keeping the sword level.  He had a feeling that it was going to be a very long, very painful day.


	4. Chapter 4

Heimrikh should have known when Aldriki Kilijaan overtook him on his journey back to Sarmatia that he was in deep trouble, but all he could focus on was his father’s face, back in Byzantium, when he reported back.

 _‘Conochvars **and** Piitros Pirkkje?’ _the man had snarled, whirling on him suddenly as he stopped his furious pacing across his office, framed by the velvet curtains. _‘You lost them **both!** ’_

“You look terrible,” Kilijaan said. “You look like you weren’t worth my time to smuggle out of Raajokin. They’ve all but exiled me for that, you know- tell your father that I _will_ get something out of him for this.”

He realized, after a few moments of waiting for a reply, that Heimrikh wasn’t paying attention at all. In fact, the man didn’t seem like he was physically capable of paying attention. And he _stank,_ like a corpse in the sun.

“There is something _seriously_ wrong with you,” Kilijaan announced, and shook his head, walking away rather faster than he’d come. He’d followed the river from Raajokin down to the Axenios, and had been following the coastline as close as possible through Sarmatia. He was perfectly secure in his confidence that he could take on any Sarmatian that presented themselves, but that didn’t mean he _wanted_ to encounter any. Heimrikh and his stench would do that, either drawing the horses themselves; or the Lizards, and then the Sarmatians after them.

 _‘Don’t you **dare** come back until you’ve killed them!’_ was what Heimrikh heard, his father’s words and his father’s office imposing themselves over Kilijaan and the coastal plains. He kept stumbling onwards, using his telepathy as a prop, until finally, he fell.

Heimrikh Ásbjarn lay there for half an hour before he could pull himself up again, staggering and listing towards the ground in several aborted attempts to rise, until he mustered his last reserve of power- the energy that was going into keeping him alive- and took off violently, too fast and uncontrolled, back in the direction he’d come from.

When his life finally gave out, he was over Cipros. His body landed in the Morphou District, where it attracted a lot of attention. His already-necrotized leg caused a lot speculation, most of it frantic, bordering on hysteric.

No one thought to look for a spider bite. No one on Cipros had ever heard of the effects of the venom of the Chilean Recluse Spider. No one had ever even _heard_ of the Chilean Recluse Spider.

-

**_MEMORANDUM: BIN YOAD NIKHON_ **

_DATE: 5 July 1826_

_FROM: Miria HaNarbon, Cipros Field Office, BINYAN_

_SUBJECT: Assassination in Finland, Suspected Necromancy Sarmatia (FLAGGED URGENT)_

_TO: Nicholas Ibn Yakov Fury, Alexandria Headquarters, BINYAN_

  1. _At an unspecified time in the morning of 25 June, Master Heimrikh Ásbjarn of Byzantium, son of Master Nordmann Ásbjarn of the same city, formerly the patron of Finnish Duke Consort Rixardos of Byzantium and current patron of Doctor Conrad Conochvars, was publically announced guilty of the assassination of Grand Duke Benham of Finland, also Duke of Estia and Livia and Vanspag Ruirig, by his nephew Duke Piitros Pirkkje of Finland. Duke Piitros and Master Heimrikh Ásbjarn subsequently disappeared, the Duke in vengeful pursuit, into the Cemetery Isle, and presumably on into Sarmatia. Ásbjarn’s traveling companion, Doctor Conochvars, subsequently also disappeared, to a locale unknown. The motivations for this assassination remain unclear._
  2.        _At 15:09 this afternoon a dead body of a young male, about twenty, with the left leg necrotized, fell from the sky into Morphou. Entry of DNA into serves identified male as Heimrikh Ásbjarn. Further investigation deduced cause of death as infection from said necrotized leg, which the coroner placed as being dead a full week earlier than the rest of the body. Forensic mutation analysis traced Heimrikh Ásbjarn’s path of arrival, under his own telekinetic power, as originating somewhere within Sarmatia._
  3.        _Given the mysterious circumstances of the Grand Duke’s assassination, the fact of his Sarmatian ethnicity, the still-missing Finnish Duke, and the seamless join of the week-deceased leg to the recently-deceased corpse, our analysts, working in tandem with the Mediterranean Police analysts stationed on Cipros, have reached a disturbing conjecture: the assassination of the Grand Duke as a either a distraction tactic or a strategic deterrent to cover the activity of a necromancer working out of Sarmatia. In this hypothesis, the necromancer exerted some form of leverage, physical, economical, or diabolical, over Heimrikh Ásbjarn to carry out the assassination. Presumably, when Ásbjarn returned, pursued by Duke Piitros, the necromancer expressed his displeasure through use of his talents. The analysts conclude that, given the elapsed time frame and the circumstances involved, that Duke Piitros has a statistically significant chance of having been murdered in the name of dark magic._
  4.        _This case, being out of the Mediterranean Police’s jurisdiction, and beyond the current personnel capabilities and resources of BINYAN, should be outsourced to a third party, preferably one with significant magical resources at their disposal. Ideal candidate: Stephen Peregrinus, Sorcerer Supreme, Governor of Vinland._



_(ATTACHED NOTE)_

_Fury don’t you **dare** send any of our people into Sarmatia unless it is **absolutely necessary** for the well-being of humanity/the war effort. Make them take the long way around. We can’t afford to lose **anyone** to a necromancer. If we **have** to send anyone- don’t tell them we think there’s a necromancer. We don’t need the devastation in morale and heightened sense of paranoia that would give our operatives._

_Also: I’m not going to be the one to tell the Grand Duchess of Finland her nephew’s probably dead. Guess what job **you’ve** been delegated._

_-Miria_

-

Swordwork turned out to be the bane of Piitros’ existence; especially when, in every lesson Gwenig gave him after the first, he was jittery and flinched out of the way when she swung at him instead of trying to block it.

“Stop prancing like a newborn foal and stand your ground!” Gwenig snapped at him; and he forced himself to try, he really did, but there was the same _dangerdanger **danger!**_ that had come right before Heimrikh had burst in on him, and he just couldn’t. He kept dancing out of the way, twisting and ducking and sidestepping.

Gwenig gave up in disgust about an hour in, and handed him a horsebow. _That,_ Piitros was good at. He would have never thought he’d have an aptitude for aiming, but once he learned the motions and the stance and the grip, he was just as good as any Sarmatian.

Then they stuck him on a horse.

It was fall, by then, and Tribe Stasig had started to migrate away from the river towards the interior for their winter quarters. He would have been on a horse earlier, but-

 _“I’ve always been good with animals,”_ he’d said to Gwenig when she remarked how well the mare she’d designated as his training mount took to him.

Gwenig stared at him, mouth slightly agape in a way that had Piitros’ stomach in knots, because he knew that look. That was the look Finnish courtiers reserved for some foreigner’s particularly egregious violations of etiquette- a combination of shock and disgust.

 _“Horses,”_ she’d told him, tone so tightly restrained and venomous that he wouldn’t have been surprised if she pulled her sword on him. _“Are **not** animals.”_

When the Tribe started to move, he’d been confined to riding in the wagons, like the sick and Dr. Conochvar, the slave.

He very, very hesitantly consulted the priestess Maraaja before he proceeded. On the first auspicious day for it- Sikkintai of Jaatjakuu, the Freezing Moon, the time when the ground started to harden and the frost cling to the rocks and grass well into the morning- he approached Gwenig’s fire as she was gathering her food for breakfast and threw himself to the ground, kowtowing at her feet.

“My esteemed war-leader, Gwenig Vanspag Stasig,” he said, mentally despairing of the strange constructions he had to make in Sarmatian to make it fit Finnish penitence formulas. “I, Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje, a child of Tribe Ruirig, do beg thee for your mercy and forgiveness for my offense against the children of Tribe Stasig, your glorious horses, and the indignity I conveyed to their parents, the courageous warriors of Tribe Stasig. I, a mere foreigner, spoke in contemptible ignorance of your traditions and lives. May I bear this shame until thy ancestors have satisfaction of my sin.”

“What in Thamigasadag’s name are you doing?” Gwenig demanded.

“I called your horses animals,” Piitros said into the dirt. “I’m apologizing.”

“You-” he could hear her exasperation. “Get _up,_ city-boy.”

Gwenig spent the rest of the day getting him used to sitting on a horse without reins.

By Opettakuu, the Teaching Moon, he could hunt from the saddle with the horse bow. He kept his uncle’s swords attached to the saddle, and dutifully took them out for the training sessions Gwenig kept making him do. She’d given up on trying to keep him from ducking and dancing all over the place, and was instead working on getting him to avoid _and_ attack at the same time. It was slow but steady going.

Late on the day they broke winter camp, Piitros got the danger-feeling and twisted around in the saddle, hand shooting out. The arrow point stilled a foot away from him.

Further down the group, Maraaja laughed, loud and long, and lowered her bow.

“It’s no city-softness that grips your stallion, Vanspag!” she called to Gwenig, cantering towards them. “It is his gifts, given of the gods!”

Gwenig, who’d rode back to Piitro’s place when she’d seen what happened, eyed him speculatively.

“Argimpasa has blessed him?” she asked.

“Not Argimpasa,” Maraaja said. “He has his own gods in his bloodline, just as Stasig has Thamigasadag.”

She goaded her horse into circling Piitros.

“Tell me, Finnish Duke, what divinity you claim. What god weaves power in green-gold, that I see about you when I scry?”

“Loki Laivisi,” Piitros told her. “Called Silvertongue, Great Prince, Grandfather. But- what Heimrikh-”

“A gift from the gods cannot be taken by humans,” Maraaja told him. “Altered, perhaps. But never taken.”

The priestess wheeled her horse around and started to canter away again, towards her old place in the train.

“Examine yourself, _Vanapaghavuk_!” she yelled over her shoulder.

 “ _‘Vanapaghavuk’_?” Piitros had to ask Gwenig.

Gwenig thought on it a moment.

“Spider-warrior,” she translated for him. “Spider- _man._ ”

She paused, looking faintly confused.

“Maraaja has declared you an adult?” she muttered quietly, face furrowed in consternation.

That night, when they stopped, Piitros calculated the direction of Taivaskaavelija and went to sit facing it on the highest available ground. He made a small fire and burned strips of leather he’d laboriously written prayers on in vegetable dye, to Loki and Sikkin and his ancestors as thanks and courtesy; and then to Seppo Ilmarinen and Frija for guidance about these powers the Sarmatian priestess had hinted at.

As winter turned clearly into spring, Tribe Stasig started to move back towards the Finnish border and the river. Gwenig’s sword training continued, faster and easier now that they knew his dancing was an unconscious reaction to his danger-sense, using the faster reflexes that came with it.

When the first mare was due to foal, she kept him up all night to watch and assist. Come dawn, there was a newborn filly jumping about the landscape.

“She is yours,” Gwenig said, handing him the wooden bowl of the blood from the afterbirth. “You shall train her, and she will be your first daughter.”

Piitros took the bowl and knelt next to filly when she finally returned to her mother and collapsed to her knees in the grass, exhausted. He dipped his fingers in the bowl and drew the appropriate symbols on her coat, hesitating a moment after he’d finished. Then, using the last of the blood, added new symbols- the thick wave of Jormungandr down her spine, the chevrons of Sleipnir’s hoofprints along her sides, and Fenrir’s sun wheel sigil on her chest.

Gwenig eyed the new symbols curiously, but stayed silent on them.

“What is your daughter’s name?”

“Reino,” Piitros told her, and then had to explain the story of Reino, brother of Princess Hiruut, the first Finn to reach Japan. He had ridden Sleipnir himself to the shores of the Pacific to bring back Imperial Prince Sukehito, the kitsune, as a husband for his sister.

“Reino was no mare, city-boy,” Gwenig told him, smile sharp but teasing. “And that’s a filly you have for your daughter.”

“Our names aren’t segregated,” Piitros replied. “We don’t _do_ this… male-female thing, in Finland. It’s ridiculous. There’s no point. It doesn’t make sense.”

Gwenig’s eyebrows disappeared into her hair.

“Why say _‘these two sets of body parts and only these, they make people this’_ when it’s the work of a moment to change them?” Piitros asked. “Infinite combinations in infinite degrees. Mostly Finns are shapeshifters, Gwenig. We know better than anyone how different bodies can be, and how they don’t define the person inside them. It’s more important to know how _much_ you can change, rather than _what_ you’ve changed.”

“Can _you_ change that?” Gwenig asked.

Piitros sighed, and closed his eyes briefly.

 _Foreigners,_ he told himself resignedly.

“I used to be able to,” he told her. “Before.”

Tribe Stasig passed the summer near the Raa- but not too close, and not near Raajokin, on Piitros’ insistence. He didn’t want anyone getting wind of his whereabouts until he was _absolutely_ certain he could protect his aunt from the Ásbjarns. Reino grew and Piitros learned how to train a horse, and how to fight with a knife, and perfected his archery and his new shapeshifting skills. By the time they broke summer camp in 1827, just a couple months over a year since Piitros had arrived, Gwenig declared him _‘marginally competent’_ at swordsmanship. Piitros knew his best asset in any swordfight he might find himself in was the few seconds’ warning his danger-sense gave him, the avoidance reflexes he’d honed, and the stamina he’d built. He could evade getting hit long enough to escape, or wear out his opponent, or for the Stasig warriors to come to his rescue.

That fall, on their way to their winter grounds, Tribe Stasig strayed much closer to the Sarmatian mountains than they had last year. In Vikkinrkuu, the moon named for the time of year when the old Vikings would return from their raiding season and prey on Finnish fishing boats, he and Gwenig broke off for a few days and rode into the mountains. There, Piitros exercised the only part of his new powers he hadn’t been able to properly explore on the rolling plains of the rest of Sarmatia, and he spent three days swinging through the ravines on the cables of webbing he could now shoot, joyfully giving into the undulating up-and-down of the pendulum-swing and the pull of momentum and centrifugal force, so different from the feeling of flight he’d had in any birds’ form.

On the fourth day, Gwenig climbed onto his back and he strapped her down with some quick shoots of webbing, and she screamed exhilarated war-cries into his ear as she experienced this new form of travel, more wild and untamed than even the power of riding on the back of a galloping feral horse as you tried to break it to saddle.

-

Something was different, when Gwen brought him back to the main camp. Piitros couldn't quite put a finger on it, but...

Something had changed.

It was like seeing the world through new eyes.

He woke up groggy, sparred with Gwen, avoided Maraaja, (who had taken to turning up wherever he was,) ate, talked to Doctor Conochvars, practiced shooting, spent time with Reino, sparred with Gwen, spent more time with Reino, ate, got beaten up by Gwen in hand-to-hand, and went to bed. Mysteriously, he never woke up with bruises - just groggy.

During her attempts to teach him how to fight, Gwen also did her level best to teach him how to be a proper Sarmatian. It...sort-of worked.

He got along with the horses, in any case.

When one of Reino's friends, Iialaag, dropped a foal, the changes he had experienced suddenly smacked Piitros in the face.

Iialaag's sister-warrior, a hard-faced cousin of Gwen's, kissed him firmly on the mouth after he carefully helped the newborn foal - a filly - to her feet.

“Thank you for your help,” the older woman said. “Iialaag and I are in your debt. What is her name?”

Piitros looked at the filly - his second-sister, he realized, and knew.

“Benhaag.”

Suddenly, a lamplight swung over their shadowed furrow. “City-boy!  You here with Iialaag and Drasaka?”

Piitros was abruptly aware of how sweaty and grimy he was. There were substances that he couldn't identify all over his arms and chest, and blood was beginning to dry and crack on his face.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I’m here.”

“Get up here, the Kiiniik and several other tribes have sent messengers for council.”

Piitros stumbled in Gwen's direction. “Shouldn't I clean up first?  I mean –”

Gwen huffed. “It's just birth fluid, we've all been covered in it at some point. Hurry, all of the warriors are gathered already.”

Piitros tripped over his feet as he followed Gwen, and gratefully sank to the ground when they arrived at the tribe's bonfire.

“Vanspagii,” Gwen said brusquely, “What brings the Kiiniik and the Darusiig this far north?”

One of the foreign warriors, a dark woman with vicious scars dragging her right eye closed, spoke up harshly. “City-folk. Our camp was attacked last night.”

“They fought them off,” another warrior said. “But they lost three Little Mothers.”

“We sent messengers to the nearest camps as soon as we could,” the scarred warrior continued. “The Darusiig responded first, and then the Mekogg suggested that we call a council.”

“City-folk?” Gwen said incredulously. “City-folk killed three Little Mothers?”

“They attacked us while we were all out hunting!” the scarred Kiiniik women snapped. “Since when have city-folk known so much about the ways of the tribes?”

Piitros coughed hesitantly. “Ah - when you say city-folk, you mean outsiders, right?  It's just that - I know that there's a Finnish saying. Ah - Don't kick dirt in the faces of Sarmatians, you will die without honor.  And, well, the Judeans have something similar. Almost anyone you talk to who isn't from Sarmatia wouldn't even dream of attacking one of the tribes.”

“Of course,” Gwen hissed. “The Venidikii!”

Piitros blinked. The word basically meant ‘cow dung people.’

Gwen threw him a look that fell somewhere between exasperated and...something soft. “Come with me, Piitriik.”

Piitros startled at the nickname, and scrambled to his feet. “Yeah?”

Gwen turned towards the gathering of warriors. “Vanspagii, strategize. I will return. Maraaja stands in until I return.”  She stalked away.

Piitros sprinted to keep up. “Gwen?”

“You may not know,” Gwen snapped. “There used to be city-folk, in the north. They called themselves Veneda, which they said meant ‘people who sell.’  We called them Venidikii, which means ‘people who spread cow dung.’  We let them be, so long as they let us be. When they started attacking us, we wiped them out. The remaining cowards fled to the city-lands in the south.”

Piitros frowned.  That sounded familiar. “How long ago was this?”

“Eighty years ago.”

Piitros shook his head. “If they had someone - a leader, a king - then he or his heir may feel wronged. If they follow the pattern of deposed kings outside of Sarmatia, they'd bide their time until they got enough fighters together to attack.”

Gwen hissed through her teeth. “Api drink their blood!  So you're saying that only the Venidikii would be able to swallow back their cowardly bile and invade.”

Piitros sighed. “Probably. I mean, after all of these centuries of nobody even touching the borders except for desperate bandits, what is most likely?”

“Awaken, Agin, O Sword of Red Seas,” Gwen breathed. “Send me a spider to catch the cowardly fly.  Piitriik, this makes sense.”  She grinned fiercely, her teeth the same crimson shade as her lips. “Come, you know more of outlanders than anyone, you can help strategize.”

Before Piitros could say anything, Gwen pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Come!”

Anything Piitros had planned to say vanished. It took all of the physical training of the past year to keep his knees steady and his feet on the ground as he followed Gwen back to the fire.

Most of the actual strategic planning that followed was beyond him, but Piitros could occasionally chime in with information about ‘outlanders and city-folk.’

The sun was beginning to rise when Gwen gave a short, sharp whistle to gain the attention of the conversing warriors and Vanspagii.

“We have a problem.”

The Vanspag of Mekogg, a stocky man with arm muscles the size of melons, scowled. “What?  There are no warriors in the world superior to ours, and especially not now that we have planned our response to their attacks!”

Gwen snorted, the sound much like one Piitros had heard Tagspapiig make. “That is true. But while they are one force, we are many. Scattered. Piitros reminded me that city-folk always end up with one leader to coordinate attack - we do the same as tribes.  While we Stasig travel from the Eastern River to the Western Mountains, what of the Niinok and the Ginaanag?  They travel to the far north and east, and the far south and east.  They will not have gotten word, yet. What of you, Kiiniik, or you, Darusiig? Our way of life is superior, but we have no way to ensure our connections so much as we do our individuality.”

“What are you suggesting?” The Vanspag of Darusiig demanded. “We choose one leader for all of us?”

“A tournament,”  Piitros blurted.

All of the warriors, including the Vanspagii of Darusiig, Kiiniik, and Mekogg, turned to stare at him. Piitros felt his cheeks burn.

“Obviously, not to the death, because we will need our greatest warriors, but a tournament between Vanspagii for the greatest. Who will, ah, lead.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then –

“I doubted you, Gwenig, for the keeping of a city child,” the Vanspag of Kiiniik rasped. “I was wrong.  Good thinking, city-man.”

“Yes.”  Gwen gave Piitros a wide smile. “Good thinking, Piitriik.”

Piitros was relatively sure that he would need some packed snow to relieve his painful blush.

-

The next day, Piitros struggled to get through his ordinary schedule - the sky had been rosy when he had finally gone to sleep, and it had probably only been about three hours till his morning habits had woken him.

“Vanapaghavuk!”

Piitros turned, rubbing his eyes. He looked up - and then promptly returned his gaze to the ground.  Maraaja was directly in front of him, dressed in her normal non-riding clothing - that is to say, a tiny breastband and a belt.  And some beads. And a Sarmatian longbow.

It was not good for Piitros’ psyche.

“High Priestess?”

“Join me in my wagon.”

“Ah - what?” Piitros squeaked.

“Join me in my wagon,” Maraaja repeated.

Piitros struggled to find some words; they didn't come.

“It’s this way.”  Maraaja reached out to grab his shirt, when the blast of a horn rang out.

“Summons horn,” Maraaja breathed. “Our Vanspag calls.”

Piitros ran in the direction of the horn, mentally insisting that he was running towards Gwen, and _not_ away from Maraaja.

As soon as he reached shouting distance, Gwen waved an impatient hand at him. “You’re late, Piitriik!”

“I came running as soon as I heard,” Piitros protested. “I’m not quite as swift as my sisters or yours, not yet.”

“Not ever,” Gwen laughed, but her eyes were dark. “A city-man has been sighted ahead of the outlanders’ so-called army.  Scouts say he calls himself a ‘herald.’  I – Piitros, what is it that ails you?”

Piitros paled. “Ah – can’t it wait?  It can wait, really, it can wait.”

Gwen's lips twitched. “What did Maraaja do this time?”

“Can we not talk about this now?”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Fine.” Lifting the horn, she let out another three short blasts.

“You’re rallying the warriors,” Piitros observed nervously. “I mean, you’re rallying everyone. For a city-man?”

“I, THE GRAND HERALD OF THE HIGH AND POWERFUL JUSTUS VENEDA, DEMAND THE ATTENTION OF –”

_Whizz-ping!_

Piitros blinked as the so-called ‘herald’ toppled off of his horse and out of sight.

“Take the child!” Gwen ordered two warriors as they rode into view. “I have claimed the city-man. He is the herald of the oathbreakers.”

The warriors carefully led away the startled horse.  Piitros carefully remained within Gwen’s shadow. She had drawn her sword, and Piitros had learned from experience that the safest place in Sarmatia was behind a bloodthirsty Gwenig.

“You claim heraldship of the oathbreaker,” Gwen said coolly, lifting the whimpering man's chin with the flat of her blade. “What cowardly excuse has he for this disgraceful insurrection?”

The herald made a squeaking noise. “Justus Veneda is the rightful ruler of – _ghuuuuurkkkkkhh_!”

Piitros swallowed. Hard. Well-trained or not, he was relatively certain that any man would be shaken by the casual way that Gwen had castrated the herald.  With her sword.  With no care for the blood spray.

When the man's screams began to reach uncomfortable notes, Piitros sighed, and drew his bow.

Gwen pouted – which looked a bit strange with blood streaking her scarred cheeks. “Why did you do that?”

Piitros frowned. Why _had_ he done that?  Not long ago, he would likely have vomited in the face of Gwen's cool brutality. Now, he was...impressed. 

Why had he done that? 

He let the words fall out without thinking about it.

“His screaming was getting irritating.”

Had he _really_ said that?  He had really said that. Oh, _gods_.

His spiral of horrified thought was interrupted by –

Warmth. Sweet. Hair tickling his face. Gwen?  _Gwen?_

Just when Piitros was beginning to lose all capacity to think, Gwen pulled away, her stormy eyes pinning his.

“Join my wagon?” Gwen breathed. “Tonight?  Join me?”

Piitros attempted to breathe.  In.  Out.  Once upon a time, he could do it without thinking, but Gwen was making that difficult.

“Y-yes?” Piitros choked out. He – had said that out loud. Right?

Gwen pressed another intense kiss onto his lips, and snatched his bow. “Ha!”

Whirling, she shot six more arrows into the herald in quick succession.

Each one, Piitros noticed dazedly, was carefully placed to avoid instant death.

“It seems, cowardly emissary, that I owe you for my pleasant situation.” Gwen smiled widely. “Do not worry. Our priestess will send you home.”

The herald wheezed at her, a bit of blood bubbling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Maraaja!”

Maraaja just... _appeared_.

Piitros was _not_ going to think too hard about the implications of that...ability.  
“You called?”

Gwen pointed.  “Send the messenger back to his cowardly masters.”

Maraaja pulled a knife from... _somewhere_ , and slashed her palms.

“ _OH GODS I CALL UPON THEE!_ ”  The voice that tore itself from Maraaja’s throat was raw and choral.  Blood trailed down her arms as she lifted her hands to the sky.  “ _ARGIMPASA, PLEASE – RETURN TO SENDER!_ ”

Thunder crashed, and lightning tore itself from a cloudless sky.  When the spots had cleared from their eyes, all of Piitros’ arrows were in a neat little pile where the dying herald had been. 

The arrows were clean, neither scorched nor bloody.

Only the outline of a prone body in drying blood revealed what had occurred on the browning grass only moments before.

Gwen smiled coolly.  “Well, that’s done.  Einik, get the message out that tournament starts in an hour.  We don’t have any time to waste.”

Piitros gathered up his arrows as Gwen’s warriors headed in different directions as per her orders.

“It is coming.”

Piitros turned slowly.  Maraaja was gripping Gwen’s arm tightly, her eyes wide and shining with an eerie silvery light. 

“What’s coming?” Gwen demanded.

Maraaja smiled, but it was creepily empty of emotion.  “The future.  The crown.  You.”

A curl of fear trickled its way up Piitros’ back, but Gwen’s face just hardened.  “I’m going to win, then?”

Maraaja blinked, and her eyes were back to their normal muddy grey.  “Of course,” she said, her voice calm and assured.  “You are Gwenig Vanspag Stasig, born with a blade in hand.  You will lead our people into the future.”

She walked away.

Gwen stared after the small Priestess for a long moment.  “I am never certain if she is fooling with me, or if she is having a vision,” Gwen admitted.  “Maraaja may be a friend, but… I do not blame you for your discomfort.”

Piitros sighed.  “Right.  Well.  Um.  Be careful?”

Gwen turned to stare him in the eyes.  “Careful?”  She laughed.  “I will defeat every warrior who faces me, Piitrik – and you will join me in my wagon after sunset.”

Piitros took a shaky breath, and nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

Veneda was, politically and socially, a complete mess; and Piitros found himself explaining _why_ and _how_ Justus Veneda would think he could gain anything from challenging the Sarmatians to the Vanspagii. He was riding with them, as Gwenig’s man- Gwen herself had surprised few by winning the tournament for the place of overall commander, and the other Vanspagii were accepting of his presence and words since the tournament idea.

“Back in 1025-” Piitros was trying to explain.

 _“When?”_ one of the Vanspagii demanded.

“I don’t know when it would be for you, but ages and ages ago, when the Vikings had just unified, after they took the Britannic Isles,” Piitros said. “They tried to expand into the area that’s now Estia and Livia, but the Finns counter-invaded, and pushed them out, and kept it as a Protectorate Duchy. The Vikings mostly went towards Vinland-”

_“Where?”_

“ _That_ way,” Piitros told them, flinging a hand to the west. “Over the ocean. They’d signed a peace treaty but some Vikings kept raiding and then after the queens who’d _signed_ the treaty in the first place died, a lot of Vikings invaded Veneda to get their own land that wasn’t part of the Kingdom. A bunch of other nobility, Hekassir and Roman and Byzantine, showed up and they started fighting over the land and dividing it up and every so often they’d _think_ they’d get peace but then there’d be another war, and then two of the children of one of the Judean rulers showed up, and then some Magyars, and eventually once _that_ mess was settled it was decided that all of the little states in Veneda would elect one of the ruling Counts or Marquis or Dukes or Barons to be King of Veneda, which was to be nonhereditary.”

“It is ridiculous to fight over land,” the Vanspag of Ginaanag said. “We travel where we please, in our traditional areas.”

“Just like we’ve done?” the Vaspag of Kiiniik asked. “With the tournament?”

“Yes, but what happens when you stray too far outside your traditional areas?” Piitros asked the Vanspag of Ginaanag. “You get in fights. It’s the same idea. And-”

He turned to the Vanspag of Kiiniik.

“-yes, but without dueling over it. Usually.”

“The King of Veneda,” the Vanspag of Mekogg spoke up. “We chased him out, back when the Venidikii called us bandits and gave money for our heads; and the Magyar Lords chased up to and fro across the land. They say it was exhilarating.”

There were nods around the group. The Sarmatians approved of the Venedan Magyar Lords and their horsemanship, as much as Sarmatians could approve of foreigners.

“They have had no king since,” the Vanspag finished, sounding very satisfied about that fact. “They have spent the years fighting and raiding each other and falling apart.”

 _“That’s why they’re upset,”_ Piitros said, trying to get them to understand. “You _overthrew their **government.**_ People get really worked up about that sort of thing. I know for a fact that the Duke of Lithuania holds the Sarmatians _personally_ responsible for the occupation of the Barony of Fulinia-”

There were somewhat-blank stares from the group, and Piitros hastily explained.

“The bit of Veneda that Mekogg travels in, because the last King of Veneda was also the Baron of Fulinia, so now there’s no one in charge of it.”

“They seem to manage perfectly fine without these _nobility_ ,” the Vanspag of Mekogg said. “There are always farm-people coming to there, leaving where they were before. It is very troublesome, because the Venidikii nobility are constantly upset by it.”

“That’s because they’re _serfs,_ ” Piitros said. “When the invaders came to claim land, they made the people who were already there do all the work, like farming and smithing and- just everything, so they wouldn’t have to work. And then they just take it all.”

There were hisses from around the group. If you had slaves, they did work, yes, and you took it, yes, but you also worked _yourself._ You didn’t live off other people.

“You say that the Kingship of Veneda isn’t hereditary,” Gwen spoke up, having been formulating her thought the whole conversation. “So how does this _Justus_ say he is King? Was there an election and you didn’t tell us?”

“No,” Piitros said. “He’s the son or grandson or something of the _last_ King of Veneda.”

“But then he has no _claim._ ”

 Piitros sighed.

“He doesn’t _need_ to be elected,” Piitros said. “If he can get enough people to follow him just _because_ he’s playing off being descended from the last King, probably telling people things like how if they acknowledge him as King he’ll get revenge for them against all of you, he’ll just kind of… _become_ King.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gwen said flatly.

“Sometimes people are ridiculous,” Piitros told her tiredly.

The problem with leading a highly-nomadic lifestyle over a large area of land was that it was actually possible to move large groups of people, like an _army,_ over the area without being seen or reported. The assembled Sarmatians met the Venedan forces in the area where the Kiiniik and Mekogg lands overlapped- some ways to the general east of Aquinicum in Hekassir, Piitros wasn’t exactly sure _where_ \- after a few days of riding.

Warfare was not exactly within Piitros’ realm of experience, even with years of training, but the distinction between the groups on the other side of field was very obvious.

First, there were the serfs- barely armed, and with things like hand axes and cudgels and long work knives, not swords. The swords belonged to the knights- gods, why _knights?_ Piitros wanted to know. They were so… _useless_ in this day and age. They were outmoded almost as soon as anyone had come up with them- there were too many ways a group of decently-powerful mutants could easily kill one, unless you spent a profligate amount of time and money getting the armor and the horse warded.

Unless you were mainly fighting Sarmatians and other people who used knights, he supposed. Then, plunking down a man in metal plate on a horse with a sword made _perfect_ sense.

Third, there were the mercenaries- the only group with guns, who looked much more like what Piitros knew modern soldiers to look. They were flying standards, but the devices didn’t mean anything to him.

The serfs weren’t going to be much of a threat. The mercenaries were another matter- but, maybe, if they could take out the knights first-

 He turned to Gwen.

“Where’s-”

Maraaja was just _there,_ like she had been riding with them the entire time, instead of riding in the middle of the group with the other dedicated priestesses.

“Yes?” she asked.

Piitros took a moment to compose himself and to attempt to create the mental fiction that she, like a good servant in any noble house, could simply anticipate needs and whims. It didn’t work very well.

“How many warriors do you usually lose to knights?” he asked, saying it loudly enough that all the Vanspagii could hear.

One of them scowled fiercely.

“If they catch up to you- all, or most. They steal our horses and breed them to their own, or ones they trade for, so theirs are just as good. It is the only thing they can do properly. If you have one warrior and one knight-”

He shrugged.

“It depends on how bad the warrior is and how good the knight. But if you run across them in- in their _packs,_ it doesn’t matter unless you are twice their number. Venidikii knights will run or fight their horses to death to kill us.”

“The Magyar Lords are different,” the Vanspag of Niinok said. “We cross their lands regularly, and _they_ are not vicious to their horses.”

“Can you call lightning on them from here?” Piitros asked Maraaja. “And fire? Not just you, but all the other priestess?”

Maraaja eyed him speculatively.

“Most can,” she said. “Some are better at lightning, others fire. But we will _not-_ ”

“I wouldn’t ask you to hurt the children,” Piitros assured her. “Could you get enough people to conjure temporary fire on the plains around them to scare the children enough that they dump the knights; and-”

Understanding dawned on Maraaja’s face, and she smiled widely, the expression bloodthirsty.

“Oh _yes,_ ” she purred, savoring the words. “Lightning and metal plate, _yes…_ ”

She turned her horse around, sharply, and started calling for the priestess- and few accompanying priests- to come to the front, shouting at the top of her lungs. They started to filter through the massed Sarmatians.

“Piitrik?” Gwen asked.

“I’m worried about the mercenaries,” he admitted. “I know what they can do, Gwen, and the only defense any of you have is your speed. That’s something for when you’re facing arrows, but those bullets will punch through you and hit the warrior riding behind you.”

“Then we have died well!” the Vanspag of Darusiig proclaimed. “These are not the first guns we have faced, city-man!”

Piitros pressed his eyes shut for a moment and prayed to Ahti, the Sea God, for patience in the face of these-

These-

These **_Viking_** _tendencies._

“Yes,” he said. “But you’ll be _dead._ And so will everyone else.”

He pulled a card he hoped would turn out to be a trump.

“If every Sarmatian on this field dies, who will bury you?” he asked. “Who will make sure your souls reach the Land of the Dead; if your children and elders are fleeing across your lands for their lives, the mercenaries firing on them as they go and knights riding them down under their horses’ hooves?” 

He spent the silent pause as people searched for answers to review what Maraaja had managed with the priestesses. She caught sight of him looking, and made a strange hand gesture at him- both thumbs raised straight up from her hand, all the other fingers curled into a fist but for the first fingers, pointing straight at him.

Piitros was about to ask Gwen what that particular field sign meant when he noticed the mercenaries start to move. For a moment, he nearly panicked, trying to come up with a way to keep too many people from getting killed- but then he recognized the direction of the movement.

“They’re _retreating?_ ” he asked himself. _“What?”_

Off to the side, Maraaja raised one hand and cut it down through the air to point her hand at the Venedan knights.

 _“Fire!”_ she yelled.

-

From within a knot of the priestesses, something tiny and shimmering arrowed into the air, splitting into hundreds of pieces and landing near the knights –

Where there was immediately fire.

Piitros leaned towards Gwen.  “Who?”

Gwen grimaced.  “You wouldn’t have met him, he’s in intensive training to be a priest.  His name is Jendiik.  If I’ve understood Maraaja’s strategy, he’ll be setting the fires, while a junior priestess calls the children to us for safety.”

As soon as the last knight had been thrown to the ground, the fires went out.  Eerily and all at once.  Before Maraaja so much as moved a muscle, a young priestess called out “Hold!”

Piitros stared.  He didn’t recognize the young woman, but the way her eyes were glowed meant the something important was going on.  Presumably priestess-things.

A small bird landed on Tagspapiig’s head.  There was tiny note attached to the bird’s leg.

“The bird is an ordinary bird,” the priestess said.  “Not a construct, not a shapeshifter!  Don’t hurt her!”

“I’m not going to hurt the bird, Jaanag,” Gwen said irritably, carefully removing the note.  “Send it off the battlefield, would you?”

The bird fluttered off, presumably at Jaanag’s command, while Gwen scowled at the note.  Huffing, she thrust it into Piitros’ face.  “What does it say?”

Piitros squinted. The note was in Mauryan, which he didn’t know very well- but if the mercenaries were from Maurya, that explained why he didn’t recognize their banner devices. “We are not…stupid.  We will not…hit?  Fight?  We will not fight the daughters of the Nataraja.  Who’s the Nataraja?”

Gwen grinned. “It means that they’re afraid and running away.  Maraaja?”

Maraaja rode forward, baring her vividly  _Shuriig_  teeth.  “Brace yourselves.”  She lifted her hands into the air, and let out a hawklike shriek. 

Piitros had seen lightning before. But he had never been close enough that his vision sprouted white spots and his ears began to ring. 

He was relatively certain the mercenaries were really glad that they had backed out, now.  Staring across the field at approximately four hundred shriveled burnt husks was  _not_ comforting. 

-

“Shaytan take you _both_!” Sergeant Rasim Rasul of Company Saptadasha snapped at two of his subordinates. “We’re _leaving! Before_ the Sarmatians get over here!”

“I’m not letting the Sarmatians get Jyeleny!” Raani screeched, and shoved herself off her horse.

“We can’t leave Pytras!” Katarina cried. “They’ll kill him!”

“If they’ve got any sense, she’s teleported them away already,” Chanpala tried to reason, but Katarina just phased of her horse and Raani hit the ground on four paws and then the mercenaries, one intangible, one a brown wolf, were racing off towards the massed serfs, who didn’t deserve the title ‘infantry’.

“Let’s _go,_ ” Vlypasa Saulėvykasa urged, eying the Sarmatians nervously. She wasn’t an original member of Rasim’s mercenary squad, but she’d been with them through many of their- sadly numerous- migrations from company to company. “They’re _serfs_ if they haven’t used her power to leave already they’re not _going_ to now! Raani and Kati will catch up.”

“ _You_ left,” Kiều said.

“The Baroness was going to kill me if I didn’t!” she insisted. “You don’t _know_ what it’s like, being a serf! _Please,_ let’s _go-_ we’re getting left _behind!_ ”

Rasim could see how very true this was, but he _couldn’t_ just ride off without all of his people.

“Rasim,” Chanpala’s brother Rohit said quietly, sidling his horse up to his Sergeant’s. “I do not want to be here when the daughters of the Nataraja begin their war-dance.”

“They can’t be worse than Vikings,” Thayendanegea said. “Sir, even if you go, I’ll be staying for Raani.”

“The only people worse than the Sarmatians are the Venedan lords!” Vlypasa told him. “Put your Haudenosaunee rivalry aside, Thayen! The Sarmatians-”

“I’ve fought Mississippi bandits too,” Thayen interrupted. “ _They_ really don’t have any compunctions when it comes to brutality. And Raani told me the Sarmatians are friends with the Finns. Anyone who’s friends with enemies of the Vikings is fine by me.”

“You may want to be more careful picking your friends,” Surayya warned him, before her cousin and Sergeant could say anything. “The logic of alliances does not always apply.”

“We won’t let the Venedans take you back, Vlypasa,” Rober said earnestly. He was the newest addition to the squad. “My family traded through this area all the time- I know how they treat people and _they_ won’t do that!”

“Yeah, thanks,” Vlypasa muttered.

“Incoming!” Chanpala called to the squad, and suddenly Raani and Kati were back, emerging from one of Jyeleny’s portals with the woman herself on one of Raani’s arms, her brother Pytras right behind them.

Rasim sighed, and prepared to put on his reprimanding voice.

“What are you _doing!”_

A small group of Venedan knights stormed over to them, the one in front with his faceplate up so he could yell at them.

“ _First_ you start to retreat on the cusp of battle-”

“We’re not getting paid by _you,_ ” Rasim said, urging his horse forward. He was large, as was his horse, and his dreadlocks and red officer’s cape just made him seem larger. Usually, this worked as an intimidation tactic- especially once people noticed his eyes. His mutation had the side-effect of coloring them red.

The knight didn’t seem cowed, and kept going on.

“- _then_ you steal our serfs!” he raged, pointing at Pytras and Jyeleny.

“They’re not yours!” Raani snapped at him.

“Be quiet, _Finn._ ”

“ _Vikkinrkjun_!” she spat back. “ _Revin sjaso **kirkkul** teipakjun aavi_!”

“And they pass them off as _mercenaries!_ ” one of the other knights sneered, tearing of Vlypasa’s hood to reveal the brand on her cheek that marked her as a mutant serf of Veneda. “Drugovian, this one!”

She shook Vlypasa violently.

“What’s your village, huh, Rydrujavan?” she demanded. “You got siblings? Parents? _Their_ punishments last as long as your silence does!”

There was a moment when the squad and the knights and the two escaping serfs stood, completely frozen-

-and then Vlypasa looked the knight straight in the eyes and hissed:

“I stopped using that name _years_ ago!” and lashed out with one of her shockwaves, knocking the knight holding her off her horse, along with the other knight who’d been speaking. They tumbled into a pile some yards away.

The other knights drew their swords. Rasim and some of the other mercenaries exchanged exasperated glances- some drawing their guns, others starting to reach for their powers-

Suddenly, there was a great outcry of humans and horses as fire sprung up from nowhere, shooting through the knights, horses rearing and flailing and throwing their riders.

 _“That’s not me!”_ Rohit yelled frantically, trying to control his horse as everyone but Surayya, who’d exploded into her sandstorm form and blasted the knights away at the first hint of trouble, was either thrown along with the knights or, in the case of Rasim, saved by Pytras grabbing the reins and changing to metal, anchoring the horse to the ground.

Roberd rolled away from his horse and threw up a sheet of ice along the ground that extinguished the fires closest to them, melting away quickly from the rest of the heat.

Kiều got to her feet, unsteadily.

“What…” she said, dazedly.

“It was the Sarmatians,” Thayen said, pointing from his seat in the grass to the line of priestess and priests on horses across the field, arranged in front of the warriors. There were two lone figures slightly ahead of the rest, one nearly-naked and the other with their hands raised in the direction of the Venedan forces.

 _“That’s not how Sarmatians fight!”_ Vlypasa shrieked. _“Who taught the **Sarmatians** mutant strike tactics!”_

“ _‘And against the sorcerer fell the fire and the lightning-’_ ,” Raani said quietly, then spun and tackled Jyeleny to the ground.

 _“Down!”_ she yelled to the others. “ ** _Down_** the Sarmatians use fire and _lightning-!_ ”

  The squad members who were already on the ground flattened themselves further. Surayya, half-coalesced back into human shape, promptly disassociated again and a sheet of sand fell to cover them.

Rasim hadn’t even moved to get off his horse yet when the lightning came. It ripped through him, his mutation taking it and storing it and it was going to be _almost_ too much-

In the aftermath of the strike, he saw Pytras shift from metal back to flesh and sit down in the grass, _hard,_ slightly stunned from being on the edge of that much electricity; and Surayya, pulling herself back together-

He had to discharge the energy or it was going to burn him up-

The nearest acceptable target were the knights the lightning strikes had missed. The Sarmatians just didn’t have enough priestess, or enough accuracy, to kill any more than about half of them. When Rasim let go of the energy the lightning had charged him with, fifty of the closest of the Venedan knights staggering to their feet in the carnage of their compatriots fell to his kinetic blasts, the same baleful red as his eyes. 

There was utter silence on the battlefield as the knights stood in shock and the Venedan serfs stared at their decimated overlords. The Sarmatians watched from across the field, seeming impassive in their distance from the tableau.

Raani growled, low in her throat.

“Rasim,” Kiều said. She was one of the original members of the squad, and was allowed to address him familiarly. “You’re not supposed to attack the side you’ve been hired to fight for.”

“I wasn’t going to attack the serfs,” he protested.

Jyeleny was looking at the knights.

“They look awfully… small,” she said quietly.

“Slave owners are always smaller on the ground,” Surayya told her. “I know.”

 Vlypasa was staring at Pytras’ back. The man himself was staring out over the serfs.

She turned to her sergeant.

“Rasul,” she said, a hint of pleading in the word.

“This wasn’t how this was supposed to go,” Chanpala said.

“But think about it,” Rober piped up, catching on. “We’d be able to tell people we fought _with_ theSarmatians, not _against_ them.”

“You can’t say you _like_ the knights,” Kati wheedled.

Rasim sighed, heavily, and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

 _“Fine,”_ he muttered. “We’re already too entangled with this to back out, anyway. I’m going to _find_ the name of whatever djinn cursed this job, and I’m going to-”

 Vlypasa fired her gun in the air and let loose with a war scream the squad had heard her use before; but this time the up-and-down undulating pattern of it was joined with the massed voices of some of the serfs.

 _“I am Vlypasa Saulėvykasa Drujavan!”_ she roared to the serfs in her native language as Jyeleny and Pytras started their own war scream, taken up by a different set of serfs. _“I return to the lands of my ancestors a free woman to see the arzemniiks destroyed! What say you, people of Gabija?”_

There was a melody of war screams, the different tribes’ patterns, never lost over the centuries of occupation, harmonized together, just as they once had.

The squadron- who couldn’t understand a word Vlypasa was screaming- exchanged deeply nervous, anxious looks. Only Thayen, reminded of war raids at home on the Vinland and Mississippi borders, was smiling.

 _“What did we just get ourselves into?”_ Kiều muttered through her clenched teeth.

 _“To me- Drujavanai!_ ” Vlypasa roared, kicking her horse forwards into a gallop towards the knights. _“To me-Polokiavanai! Radimikanai! Krivikanai!”_

 _”Supovanai!”_ Jyeleny yelled; her brother joining in. _“Khaldaranaii! Lietuvanai!”_

Some of the Venedan knights tried to run- but between their full plate armor, and the serfs in front of them, and the Sarmatians behind, they had nowhere to go. The rest fumbled for their swords.

“Well, _after_ her, I guess,” Rasim said, throwing up his hands momentarily in defeat before grabbing the reins of his horse and leading the squad galloping after Vlypasa.

Across the field, emboldened by impatience and the blood-raising war screams of the serfs, so close to their own, the Sarmatians charged the Venedan knights, who were just beginning to fall to the people they’d enslaved to the land so long, dying under the blows of weapons and mutations.

The knights didn’t last even half an hour.

-

When the war screams from the Venedan serfs began, Piitros was coldly certain, for a moment, that the small cluster of mercenaries who remained were trying to rally their allies for an attack against the Sarmatians.

He’d been hoping the serfs would run, so the Sarmatians wouldn’t have to slaughter them all.

But then the serfs started running; and fell not on the Sarmatians, but the knights, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, without any orders or input, the Sarmatians charged _en masse,_ on nothing but battle fervor, and smashed into the knights on the far side of the serfs.

He… killed some people, he could remember that; but it seemed over just as it had begun, and Piitros pulled Reino off to the side of the carnage and just _sat_ there, taking deep breaths, and trying not to tremble too much.

He found himself in the perfect position to witness a man- riding like a Sarmatian, but wearing not very many clothes, and without the _look_ of a Sarmatian- pull out of the group, just as he had, and ride up next to him.

“Are you doing all right?” he asked.

Piitros nodded, before finding he was making the action too frenetic.

“Yes,” he said instead. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

“Jendiik, Duke Pirkkje,” the man answered, eyes twinkling. “I’m an outlander, like you. I’m-”

“Training to be a priest,” Piitros cut in, suddenly remembering what Gwen had told him earlier. “You’re a fire _luohi-noita_. Are you Finnish?”

They’d been talking in Sarmatian, not Finnish; but if he’d called him _‘Duke Pirkkje’_ -

“No,” Jendiik said, looking out over the plains towards the serfs, and pointing. “Those are my people. My village chased me out, and I ran until I collapsed in the Sarmatian-”

 _“Jonan?”_ someone said, barely more than a whisper.

Piitros and Jendiik turned to see one of the mercenaries. Piitros was momentarily surprised he wasn’t Mauryan-but, if mercenary companies based in Europe had members from around the world, it made perfect sense that ones from other places did, too.

Jendiik had gone pale.

_“Rober?”_

The mercenary- Rober- lunged across his horse to grab Jendiik by the shoulder and pull him in for kissing. Piitros politely turned Reino so he wouldn’t be looking at them.

Gwen trotted over with Maraaja, looking both smug and somewhat concerned.

“Piitrik,” she said. “Jaanag tells me that Kiiniik and Darusiig have been taking in- in-”

She struggled with the word.

“ _‘Refugees’_ ,” she finally managed in Finnish.

“Really?” Piitros asked, surprised. “From the war?”

“What war?” Gwen asked, puzzled.

“The-” Piitros started to say, then remembered the conversation he’d had with the Vanspagii earlier about Justus Veneda and stopped, uncertain.

Gwen looked at him expectantly.

“The King of Hekassir died- that’s the country that way-” Piitros told her, pointing. “And there were two people who could have replaced him; and they started a war over it but one of them was allied to someone everyone else was scared of so then everyone _else_ went to war.”

“Even Finland?” Gwen asked. “And that is another reason why snowflake tried to kill you?”

“Not Finland,” Piitros said. “You and Veneda are between Finland and the war- and nobody cares enough about Veneda to invade it, and no one is foolish enough or brave enough to try and fight _you._ ”

Gwenig smiled, viciously pleased, showing all her _shuriig-_ redteeth.

“Oh great,” a new voice said, in the Semetic-Sanskrit-Wakandan creole that served the trade-tongue and common language of the people centered on the Ratnakrya’s trade routes. “Now we’re picking up _Sarmatians._ ”

Piitros had to turn again to see the speaker. He turned out to be a large man in a red cape- Piitros would place him as Wakandan or Arabic, he wasn’t sure which. He was flanked by the rest of the mercenaries.

“Do you have a problem with Sarmatians?” he asked, hoping what he remembered of Ratnakryan creole was comprehensible.

The man flinched.

“No,” he said. “Just picking up strays. We’ve done enough of that today already.”

He paused for a moment before continuing.

“Do you know any other language?” he asked. “Besides Sarmatian. You sound _terrible._ ”

Piitros sighed, disappointed in himself.

“He’s the Duke of Finland,” Jendriik told the mercenaries in Hekassir. “So if you have Alexandrian, or-”

One of the mercenaries’ expressions was suddenly stricken with terror, and she slid off her horse to prostrate herself on the ground.

_Oh no, a Finn-_

“My Royal Highness, Duke Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje,” she wailed. “I, Raani Siinkjari, do beg thee for your mercy and forgiveness for my offense against thee! I was thoughtless and imperceptive in my confident ignorance, thinking that, despite the marriage of your Royal and Good Aunt, Grand Duchess Mei Loistavic Pirkkje, to Duke Benham Sarmatainen, there could not be any of Sikkin and Loki’s line amongst my comrades on the field of battle!  May I bear this shame until thy ancestors and Loki and Sikkin themselves have satisfaction of my sin.”

“I, your Royal Highness, Duke Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje, do forgive you, my citizen, Raani Siinkjari, for your misstep,” Piitros absolved her as Gwen snickered at the display she was witnessing. “And I charge you with this: to not reveal my presence in Sarmatia to any who are not Sarmatian themselves, unless the need is dire.”

Raani looked up from the dirt.

“Why, my Duke?” she asked.

“Master Nordmann Ásbjarn of Byzantium attempted to assassinate me, and in the process, killed by uncle,” Piitros told her. “I must remain dead, or at least missing, to his knowledge, until I am ready to avenge his death.”

“Nordmann Ásbjarn?” the man in the cape asked, picking up on the only words he recognized. “That’s the man who was paying the companies.”

Piitros felt his teeth clench together, hard, and looked at Gwen.

“The Ásbjarns paid for the mercenaries,” he told her.

She scowled fiercely and drew her sword.

“So these-”

“No, not _them!_ ” Piitros exclaimed. “They’ve _defected!_ Switched sides so they don’t have to work for him!”

Rober, who had Jendiik translating for him, quietly muttered: _“That’s not why, but if it keeps us from getting killed-”_

Gwen resheathed her sword.

“Are they coming, then?” she asked Piitros and Jendiik. “We travel to the- _refugee_ camp. The other Vanspagii have spoken with the Venediiki serfs, and they have agreed to come if we will continue to fight. It is hidden in the mountains, a day’s ride.”

The mercenary squad decided to travel with the Sarmatians, and, after introductions, helped loot the dead knights of all their belongings, rend the corpses apart, take all the horses that weren’t dead, and bury the few Sarmatians that had fallen in battle.

The day the Sarmatians spent traveling south, towards the mountains, were a sharp lesson in cooperation and scheduling. The Sarmatians hadn’t traveled like this, all together, in living memory, and they left a wide swath of plain pounded flat behind them.

Piitros was surprised by the size of the refugee camp, when they reached it. It was more like a small city, partially tents, partially buildings- some well put-together, of stone and wood, meant to last years. Some clearly had already. The Sarmatians spread out into the surrounding canyons and ravines and caves and valleys, when there wasn’t enough room in the network of valleys already colonized by the refugees.

The Vanspagii, Piitros, Maraaja, Sergeant Rasim, and the serf leaders- Vlypasa, Jyeleny, and Pytras- had plans to take over part of the largest, best-heated building in the camp-city; but as soon as they stepped in the door, Rasim froze and said: “We should leave.”

“What?” Gwen demanded.

Rasim pointed to the far wall of the entrance room, which was plastered bright white. A stained and polished wooden cross, inset with gold lettering in the Greek alphabet, was fused to it.

“Christians,” Rasim told them. “Fellow People of the Book. They won’t want us here.”

At the blank looks he got, he explained further.

“They worship the same god as I and my people, and the Judeans. They’re complete pacifists- this is a hospital and a hostel, a place of healing and rest. The only place holier is one of their temples. They won’t let us have a war council in here.”

   As they trooped out in search of a better-suited venue, Piitros caught sight of the flag the building was flying- white, with a purple cross.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, remembering. “ _Christians!_ ”

He turned to Rasim.

“They’re the ones who think the world ended, right? We’d get letters from them, sometimes.”

“They say the Kingdom of God came to Earth with the building of the Third Temple by Geula Malka,” Rasim corrected. “And that the rest of the world has been too slow to let go of their flaws and accept the gift they have been given; so they venture sometimes into the wider world to build hospitals and sanctuaries and spread the message of love and peace, in person and through letters.”

He shrugged.

“Of course, it is easy for them to believe such things, secluded away in the hills of Anatolia.”

The war council did eventually find a building, and then were subsequently snowed in for a week as the first snowstorm of the year hit. Gwen and Piitros enjoyed themselves during the down-time between the Sarmatians and Venedan peasants coming to an agreement about finally overthrowing the Venedan lords and their knights so everyone could live in peace; but were glad when the snowstorm passed and they could go outside to help clear the camp-city’s streets so people could move about again.

It took two weeks to make sure everywhere was clear, and to restock enough food and water to keep everyone reasonably far from starving, but the Sarmatians were used to winter hunting and rode as far as they had to to bring back game, or raid unattended Byzantine storehouses for grain and preserves, while the priestesses and priests and fire mutant refugees and anyone who could be spared to watch a pot over a fire melted the cleared snow for drinking water. Piitros met some of the Christians around the fires, and they seemed like quite pleasant people, despite their strange adherence to not fighting or waging war.

After those two weeks, Gwen and Piitros went out riding to celebrate. Gwen had told him she always went to see the high-speed train line where it passed over Sarmatia, and watch the trains go whizzing by, and Piitros was determined to explain every detail of the physics and engineering that he knew to his new lover.   

-

For all that Gwen was clearly as Sarmatian as they came, Piitros found an eager listener in his lover as he struggled to force science into understandable phrases in Sarmatian.  As the train itself shot by, hundreds of feet overhead, he was forced to raise his voice to a shout.

“I’M NOT ENTIRELY SURE HOW LONG IT TOOK TO BUILD THIS LINE,” he said, in response to one of Gwen’s torrent of questions.  “LESS THAN A DECADE, BUT MORE THAN A YEAR, I THINK. I –” He stopped.  Gwen’s entire posture had shifted from what one might dub ‘eager listener’ and into ‘alert warrior.’

“DID YOU SEE THAT?”  Gwen shouted, pointing.  Tagspapiig turned slightly so that Gwen had a better view of the train.  “THAT WAS AN EXPLOSION.  BLUE LIGHT.  DO YOU – IS THAT A _PERSON_?”

Piitros squinted.  Gwen had better eyes than most – falling through the air was, indeed, a _person_.

“THERE’S NO WAY A PERSON COULD SURVIVE A FALL LIKE THAT,” Piitros responded.  “THAT TRAIN IS MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY FEET IN THE AIR.”

Gwen and Tagspapiig shifted, uneasily, and then Gwen shook her head.  The train began to pull out of sight, and the sound lessened.

“Then we can give the man a proper funeral,” Gwen said.  “The last thing we need is an angry ghost chasing us about in the middle of a war.”

Piitros winced.  While he had never actually seen a ghost, the stories told about them were _not_ pretty.

“Agreed,” he replied.  “Can we get to where he landed?”

In response, Gwen threw him a wild smile.  “Catch us if you can!” she shouted, as she and Tagspapiig galloped off.

Piitros snorted, and urged Reino to follow.  “Right behind you!” he cried, the wind biting his cheeks.

Gwen’s laugh echoed off of the mountains.  “You’ll never catch us if you’re behind us – oh _Gods Above and Below!_ ”  She and Tagspapiig stopped abruptly.

Piitros and Reino ended their sprint a bit more sedately.  “What?”

Gwen pointed, mutely.  Sprawled in the snow, his breath sending little curls of mist into the air, was their falling man.

Still _alive_.

Piitros swore.  Loudly, and in multiple languages.  Living with a bunch of warriors was _good_ for the more vulgar side of one’s vocabulary.

“Oh, stop swearing and help me,” Gwen snapped, swinging off of Vanspapiig and kicking through the snow to the prone man.  “His arm looks messed up, and you know more about body parts than I do.”

Piitros stumbled off of Reino and over to Gwen’s side, squinting at the disastrous mess that had once been an arm just as it began to snow.

“I’m not sure that there’s much we can do,” he said hesitantly.  “I mean, unless there are any touch-healers back at the camp?”

Gwen grimaced.  “None.  I’ve seen Maraaja build whole limbs from gods-power, but heal?  No.”

Piitros frowned.  “Then tie a tourniquet around his shoulder to stop the bleeding, sluggish though it may be, and let’s bring him back to camp.  Worst case scenario, one of the healers can amputate it and replace it with a magically animated replacement.”

Gwen tore a long strip off of her cloak, and tied it firmly.  “I’ll carry him, “she said, “Tagspapiig is stronger than Reino.  Carry that stick-thing he was holding?”

Piitros looked over at the item that she indicated.  He winced.  “Gwen, that ‘stick-thing’ is a _gun_.  Like what the mercenaries use.”  He picked it up.  “Alexandrian, military grade.  This man is a soldier.”

Gwen settled the man over Tagspapiig’s back, and swung up into her saddle.  “ _Gun_?  Those things are the most dishonorable and idiotic replacements for bows that I have ever seen.  What was this man doing with one?”

“He was a soldier,” Piitros repeated.  “Most armies give their soldiers _guns_ , nowadays, not bows or swords.”

Gwen shrugged.  “Soldier or not, he’ll be a dead man if we tarry.  Hurry up.”

Piitros jumped up onto Reino, and smiled faintly when he was certain that Gwen couldn’t see him.  For all that she played the cold-hearted warrior, Gwen was quite caring when faced with an injured or ill innocent.

They had barely hailed the first border-guards for the camp when someone rode out to meet them – it was one of the priestesses, Piitros was pretty sure her name was Jaanag.

“There’s a visitor!” she cried, as soon as they were within shouting distance.  “A visitor from far away, and – what’s that?”

“An injured soldier from outside of these lands,” Piitros said quickly.  “Gwen said that Maraaja might be able to help?”

Jaanag nodded.  “Yes, and I’m sure that the Christians will be happy to preach at someone who isn’t of the tribes.”

Gwen swung onto the ground.  “Tagspapiig, follow Jaanag to find Maraaja,” she ordered.  “Jaanag, where is this visitor?”

“He is in the building that you have been using,” Jaanag said absently.  “Be careful – he’s been getting some nervous looks from some of the more sensitive priestesses.”

After sending Reino to find the large building that the horses were sleeping in at the camp, Piitros followed Gwen into the rough-hewn building that they had appropriated for their war-council.

Blinking to get used to the shadows, Piitros took a moment to survey their guest as he and Gwen entered the room.  A fire-lit room simply _wasn’t_ as bright as sun-lit snow, and… that man looked _really_ familiar.

“Who are you?” Gwen demanded sharply, a hand resting lightly on her sword.  “Why have you trespassed on our lands?”

The man ignored her, and instead settled the heavy weight of two dark eyes on Piitros’ face.  “Piitros Pirkkje, you are alive,” he said in flawless Finnish.

Piitros winced.  “Um, yes, I am,” he replied, feeling tiny.  “If you wouldn’t mind, it would be my pleasure to introduce you to Gwenig –”

“Is there a necromancer in Sarmatia?”

Gwen huffed beside Piitros.  Piitros gaped.  There was something very…shocking about someone being rude _in Finnish_.  “Um, I don’t think so, the tribes are pretty severe about that type of thing.  But, this is Gwen, she would know –”

“What about Heimrikh Ásbjarn?  His leg was dead for longer than he was, and you were the last person seen with him.”

Piitros finally realized who this man was – Stephen Bethildrsson Peregrinus, Sorcerer Supreme, the current Governor of Vinland.

“Right,” Piitros said slowly, “That was an accident.  Um, I bit him – as a spider, I bit him as a spider, and I guess that type of spider must have done something, but, if you really want to know about Sarmatia, ask Gwen –”

“You bit him as a spider,” the Sorcerer Supreme said.  “Of course.  Necrotized tissue.”

And just as abruptly as every word that he had said, the Sorcerer Supreme vanished.

-

**_EXTRA-AGENCY MEMORANDUM: BIN YOAD NIKHON_ **

_DATE: 20 December 1827_

_FROM: Stephen Bethildrsson Peregrinus, Sorcerer Supreme, Vinland_

_SUBJECT: Sarmatia (FLAGGED EXTRA-URGENT)_

_TO: Nicholas Ibn Yakov Fury, Alexandria Headquarters, BINYAN_

  1. _Necromancy is not a problem._
  2. _Sarmatia is not your playground._
  3. _The following is a prophecy, something significantly more worth my time:_



The great warrior, the greatest warrior, the first and the last   
Lost child of the last land   
Shield of the future   
Who holds the Hand of Five   
Five fires burning, burning   
He holds the Hand -   
Comes now Destruction   
He will lose his Hand to He who holds the world in his coils –   
He shall swallow the Hand and spread the remaining across Eternity.

  1. _Don’t contact me again.  I do not work for BINYAN._



 


	6. Chapter 6

_Late 1828-1829_

The Christian’s hospital was very simple and plain- whitewashed stone with exposed timber framing, weathered by exposure, kept warm by fireplaces and space heaters hooked up to one of the generators in the attached shed at the back of the building. The floors were stone as well, with a hypocaust system installed underneath that served double as the hot water system.

Piitros figured that they had to have brought the bedding with them or had it shipped up, because Sarmatians didn’t have bleached-white sheets, or blankets in soft blue or green. He was currently up for watch duty on the soldier they’d rescued from the train, on the basis that he’d probably understand the man better than a Sarmatian. Rasim had been the first to sit with the patient, after Maraaja had finished replacing the arm the man had lost with arm they’d amputated with the silvery sheen of her gods-power construct. The way it looked- not _insubstantial,_ exactly, but… not entirely real- was nagging at something in Piitros’ mind, like he’d seen it before in Finland. He wouldn’t be surprised, but medical work hadn’t been one of the things he’d been interested in.

He’d stopped Doctor Conochvars, whom Gwen had agreed to loan to the Christians on the basis of his medical experience, to ask about it.

“I never saw anything like it in Alexandria,” he’d told Piitros with a shake of his head. “Or in Byzantium, but I wouldn’t be surprised if your people could do something similar.”

So, while he tried to remember if he’d seen it before or not, Piitros was reading through the book the Christians had left in the bedside table under the cross mounted on the wall.

There were books like this in each of the patient rooms in the hospital, which were split mirror-image down the middle by a curtain, so they would hold two patients. The other side of this room was currently unoccupied, but Piitros had gotten up and checked and there was an identical book-table-cross setup. The title on the front, _Tà Tría Biblía tou Christoú_ , was in Greek, which was very strange. If you wanted someone to read something, usually you wrote it in Hebrew.

But maybe it wasn’t so strange. The Christians seemed like the sort of people who would be prepared for every spiritual eventuality, and it made some sense that the people most likely to be able to read in this part of the world _would_ actually know Greek. The border with Byzantium wasn’t very far away, after all; even if you’d find the turbulent, violent mix of the Haemou groups’ ethnic conflicts before you found any Hellenic Greeks. It was nearly as unsettled as Sarmatia, in those mountains between the Adriatic Sea and the Axenios.

He’d made it through the first two sections of the first book of the _Tría Biblía_ , _Ágia Graphí-_ Didaskalíes, which, was far as Piitros could tell, was just the Torah with a new and unnecessary name; and Prophítes, which was confusingly _not_ all of the Hebrew prophets- and was now in the third section, Euangelion, flipping back and forth between Matthaois and Loukas and trying to figure out why anyone would include two different texts saying basically the same thing, attempting to find a difference significant enough that would have warranted the inclusion of both.

Then a Christian doctor came in to check on the soldier and he made the mistake of asking if the reason they had their holy book in Greek was because they expected the Haemou to read Greek.

“Oh, no,” the doctor told him. “We just thought that for the patient rooms we would get the most coverage out of using the Alexandrian Antonian and Greek texts. We have Slavic Biblía for when we spread the word of the Kingdom of Heaven in the Haemos. Do you happen to know what the Sarmatians read?”

To Piitros’ knowledge, the Sarmatians didn’t have a tradition of reading.

“Uhh…. Finnish?” he suggested. “If anything. They don’t really write things down; they have a longstanding oral tradition.”

The doctor nodded somberly.

“Yes, we had that problem with the Slavs, too. So we learned their languages and then helped them make an alphabet so they could read the Word of the Lord in their own tongue and come to a fuller understanding of the gift we have been given in this world. And now we have people in the beginning stages of making copies in Venedan, for the serfs who will be freed of injustice.”

Piitros put on his best diplomacy face and said: “That was nice of you.”

“So we will just have to send people to the Sarmatians and do the same. We were managing with the Haemou Tría Biblía, and I don’t think that anyone in Sarmatia proper will be able to understand that.”

“I think they’ll probably just kill you,” Piitros told her, dropping the diplomacy. Bluntness was likely better in this instance. “Or laugh you off the plains.”

“It is our duty and our joy to tell the world of the coming of Heaven on Earth, and entreat them to love and spiritual familiarity when they are blinded by their habits of sinfulness and the legacy of evil deeds left to humanity from the time before the sacrifice of Christ, for God has brought Heaven to His children but His children are still human, and fallible, and we shall not be able to prevent _all_ acts contrary to His will but we _can_ prevent the greatest of these transgressions, which invite demons into this world from where they have been exiled to pollute the gifts we have been granted, war and murder and abuse and the social deprivations of poverty. And that _shall not stand!_ ” 

A Christian evangelist worked up into righteousness was intimidating, in their own way.

“Well, good luck to you,” Piitros said, and wondered a little about how people managed to stay so… _idealistic_ , even once they’d left the hills where it was, as Rasim had said, feasible that they could keep such faith. “I hope you manage it.”

And that wasn’t a lie, even if he _was_ trying to get her to leave, because a world without war or murder or abuse or poverty _would_ be a very good world.

The doctor gave him a short blessing in Greek for his well-wishes, and then returned some fifteen minutes later with a copy of the Tría Biblía in Finnish and a copy in what must have been Slavic, because the alphabet it was written in had a vague resemblance to Greek, in the way that the Finnish alphabet kept some Futhark characters basically unchanged; but Piitros couldn’t read _any_ of it.

He’d just given in to her urges to accept them both- so much time with the Sarmatians, and he _still_ had the politeness reflex of a Finn; was he going to become someone who fought like a Sarmatian but couldn’t _bear_ to be impolite to anyone, even while he was disemboweling them?- when the soldier woke up.

The doctor got to work instantly, checking over everything and asking questions. They weren’t answered, and she started to look worried. She spoke more slowly, more loudly; and then switched from Alexandrian to Greek.

Then from Greek to Latin. Then Latin to Hekassir-

“Look, I have no idea what you’re saying,” the soldier interrupted her, in _Norse._

Well, Piitros had not been expecting _that._

“He speaks Norse,” he told the doctor in Greek.

“I don’t think she speaks Norse,” he told the soldier in his own language. “Why were you fighting under Alexandrian symbols if you don’t know Alexandrian?”

“What?”

“You were in an Alexandrian uniform when you fell of the train,” Piitros told him.

_“What?”_

“I think we may have a problem,” Piitros told the doctor. “I- uh, I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

 “Damaris.”

“Okay,” he said, and turned back to the soldier. “Damaris just wants to know how hurt you are, she’s a doctor, and she’s going to take care of you. What’s your medical information?”

“Medical information?” the man asked.

“Name, mutation, blood type, pre-existing conditions, special procedures- name, mutation, and allergies are good enough if you don’t know your blood type, we can figure that one out and most pre-existings with a blood test.”

“I… I don’t- my _name._ ”

“We definitely have a problem,” Piitros told Damaris.

-

By the time Gwen, Maraaja, and Jendiik arrived, Piitros and Damaris had managed to figure out that the soldier didn’t remember his name, where he was from, or anything he’d ever done before waking up in the hospital.

“He _has_ to have a name,” Gwen insisted, and Piitros firmly agreed with her. Someone without a name couldn’t be found by their ancestral spirits; and even if it wasn’t the name they’d known him by, having a name would mean he’d be able to be found, someday, and they would be able to help him. And if he died before that, well, he’d be able to enter the soldier on the rolls of those who had no one else and _someone_ would pray for him.

“We could call him Eithan,” Damaris suggested. “It means _‘enduring’_ , and he is, to survive that fall. And he will need endurance to get through this.”

Piitros thought about that for a moment.

“That’s the Greek of Hebrew, isn’t it? Eytan?” he asked, and nodded to himself when Damaris confirmed it was. “That’s one of the names we Finns took from Judea. Eitaan. I was going to suggest we call him Ahtiin, that’s _‘a sailor lost at sea washed up on shore’_. Ahtiinit are called by what they are if they’re found and no one knows who they are.”

“I have space for a given name, a patronymic, matronymic or clan name, and a family name in the records,” Damaris said.

“And he should at least have two of those,” Jendiik said. “What if we called him Eithan Antiin- Duke Piitros, what’s the possessive of Ahtiin?”

“It already is,” Piitros told him. “Ahti is the god of the sea. Ahtiinit are his people.”

“All right, well- what if we put him down as Eithan Ahtiinanai?” the priest suggested, putting the Venedan possessive tribal marker at the end of the word. 

“What about the last section?” Piitros asked. “That’s usually a- description, of a person, or a family-”

“A soldier, found in winter,” Maraaja said with a shrug. “It is all he has of himself; his only description.”

She smiled, inscrutably.

“And it would be _wrong_ to rob him of himself, would it not?”

“ _‘Militatalviin’_ ,” Piitros said. “ _‘Soldier of winter’_.”

“And do how do you feel about this?” Damaris asked the soldier, forgetting they didn’t have any language in common. Piitros had to repeat it for her, in Norse, and added the name they’d discussed.

The soldier just shrugged, and said: “As long as it fits.”

And so the Alexandrian soldier became Eithan Ahtiinanai Militatalviin- just in time for the next major event to hit.

One of the Stasiig warriors came rushing into the room, exclaiming:

“Vanspag, Vanspag- the Oiorpata! They’ve come!”

“The who?” Piitros asked Gwen, when she smiled widely.

“You were never told of the Oiorpata and the Tribe Tagimasiigsaila?” she asked, good-humored teasing evident in her tone. “And here I thought you knew _everything,_ Pitriik!”

“Not _everything,_ ” he admitted with a bit of a blush as he started to follow her out. Damaris called for a replacement and started to walk with them, causing Gwen to raise an eyebrow.

“ _You?_ Why are _you_ coming?”

“If it’s Tagimasiigsaila, Vanspag Stasiig,” Damaris said in understandable Sarmatian- though it was different than what Piitros was used to, different enough that he thought _‘dialect’_ might be appropriate, given the beginnings of the sound shifts. “Then I will know people there, and it would be remiss of me not to come say hello.”

Gwen stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the Christian doctor.

“You know _Sarmatian!_ ”

“We preach in the Haemos,” Damaris told her. “Many of the people who listen when we spread the word of the Lord are Haemou. We Christians know the Tagimasiigsaila, though they are resistant to hearing our truth.”

“Your truth is the wishing of weak children,” Gweniig said.

“We are all as children before God,” Damaris replied calmly.

Gwen shook her head and elected to ignore Damaris in favor of enlightening Piitros.

“Some generations ago,” she started to tell him. “Not many. In my mother’s mother’s time, and _her_ mother’s; there were warriors who thought that there was not enough fighting in Sarmatia. They had grown up on tales of their parents’ fights against the Venediiki, and wanted nothing more than to fight foreigners. But no one else wanted to fight the Venediiki, so these warriors- many, from all different tribes, enough to make an entire small tribe themselves- banded together and rode south for the Tagimasiigsaila, what you call the Haemos.”

“So you’re telling me,” Piitros said. “That there’s an _entire **tribe**_ of Sarmatians in the _Haemos_.”

“They call themselves after the mountains they now live in,” Gweniig continued. “They fought bandits and the Haemou and anyone who would take up arms against them. They reached some sort of- arrangement, with the settled people there, and now they guard and fight in exchange for food and trade goods for the people in the land they control. They have a smaller warband, very fierce and very famous, all women, called the Oiorpata. They don’t take only from the Tagimasiigsaila, though any who join the Oiorpata _become_ part of the Tagimasiigsaila and leave what tribe they belonged to previously. Tagimasiigsaila is always recruiting from Sarmatia for the warriors who need _more._ They, the Oiorpata, tried to recruit me, a few years ago, but I didn’t want to leave Stasiig.”

“Really, they came to ask _you?_ ” Damaris asked. “The Sarmatians really _do_ think highly of you, to have that invitation and to make you Vanspag of the Vanspagii. They sent Meliza Majić for you, didn’t they?”

“Who?” Gwen asked, but then they were outside and the Oiorpata were right there, and Gwen saw the woman on the lead horse and yelled something at her, and she yelled something back, and then the other woman was on the ground and then they both had their swords out and were going at each other.

Piitros, alarmed, took an involuntary step forwards despite the fact that he _knew_ he couldn’t do anything, but Maraaja grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

“It’s just their way,” she assured him. “Between Gweniig and Meliisa Vainkag Tagimasiigsaila, this is a friendly greeting.”

“So they _did_ send Meliza Majić,” Damaris said, unsurprised.

All Piitros had to do was look at her pleadingly to get her to explain.

“Meliza’s mother was Christian,” Damaris told him. “One of the converts we make among the Haemou. We make the most in Tagimasiigsaila territory, where they live in near-perfect peace. Among the Tagimasiigsaila themselves… well, none yet. But we had hopes for her father, given that he one of them and married one of ours. The Haemou there call themselves Serbs, and marriage between the two groups isn’t uncommon; but usually the Sarmatians don’t marry Christians, or they don’t show any interest in it at all. One day Marija- Meliza’s mother- was killed by a surprise attack while she and her husband and Meliza were out riding. Meliza stayed with her father’s people then, and became the leader of the Oiorpata.”

Piitros nodded absently, his eyes bound to the fight.  He could absorb the new information later – right now, he was enthralled by the lethal beauty that was Gwen (and Meliisa) in battle.

-

Organizing the march _back_ to Veneda from the refugee camp in the mountains was the first time in Piitros’ entire life where he’d felt happy about all the years his aunt had kept him in Raajokin, doing paperwork and managing people.

They had to travel from the mountains in the south of Sarmatia to Mazzera, the capital of the Duchy of Fulinia, which the Sarmatians technically owned since the last Venedan war. Piitros ended up doing a lot of delegating, partially because there were so _many_ people to handle, but mostly because for all that he was Gwen’s lover and Gwen was in charge of the Sarmatians; the Sarmatians still, just as he himself did, thought of him as a city-raised Finn. An _important_ city-raised Finn, as the Finns counted such things; and certainly the Finns were the best of the settled peoples- but he wasn’t Sarmatian. He dressed like a Sarmatian, now, and he’d started dyeing his teeth _shuriig_ red since Maraaja had named him _‘Vanapaghavuk’_ , ‘spider-warrior’- but he didn’t speak like a Sarmatian and he didn’t ride like a Sarmatian and he certainly didn’t _fight_ like a Sarmatian. He didn’t _think_ like a Sarmatian, and it showed.

Which, given what the Sarmatians and the Venedan serfs and the mercenary squad and a band of variously-skilled refugees and _Christian doctors_ were riding into, was probably a good thing.

“You’re not getting rid of us,” Damaris insisted from her horse. It was the day the Sarmatians were set to move out, and Piitros had convinced Gwen and Maraaja who talked Meliisa and the other Vanspagii to get the Sarmatian warriors and priestesses to make an approximation of forming up in ranks, grouped by tribe. It had been a bit easier with the Venedan serfs, who at least had a passing acquaintance with the idea of professional army, and of course the mercenaries didn’t need any prompting to act like soldiers. Sergeant Rasul had actually been one of the people Piitros had delegated to- he was in charge of Vlypasa, and Vlypasa was the original instigator of the peasant revolt; so, by default, Rasim was now nominally the military commander of the entire _‘infantry’_. 

He’d thought he had the situation under control, except _now_ there was a _third_ group of riders trying to join the end of the group.

 _“Why?”_ Piitros had to ask, looking past Damaris to the group of mounted doctors, most of them Christians from the hospital, and a selection of refugees.

“One, you’re taking my patient,” Damaris said, pointing off behind Piitros at Eithan, who was now out of bed and on a horse himself, next to Maraaja, who was apparently regaling him with a story. “ _I’m_ the one in charge of him, and I won’t let you just ride off with him into battle.”

“He remembers how to fight,” Piitros protested. It had been the first thing Gwen had checked when he was allowed back outside. “And when Gweniig told him that he owed her for saving his life, he even volunteered to fight.”

“That doesn’t mean he _should_ be,” Damaris insisted. “ _Two,_ there is the good news of Heaven to be spread and people to turn away from war and violence and abuse.”

“So you’re going to ride with an army to convince them _not_ to fight?”

“If we can,” Damaris said. “Though we have experience in knowing that this is not the way to reconcile hearts to the love of God. Where better to bring people to the truth of the gifts of this world when they have the evidence of what letting demons into the Kingdom of God does right in front of them?”

Piitros was trying to decide if it was politic or not to mention that this was an incredibly… _opportunistic_ mindset. Almost _mercenary,_ even; for a group who was supposed to be about love and peace and brotherhood.

“ _Three,_ it’s a _war._ People get hurt in wars. Combatants _and_ non-combatants. You’re going to need doctors. And we know _very_ well how disruptive wars and fighting is to daily life and the structure of society, so-”

She waved a hand back at the refugees accompanying them.

“Here are your civil engineers, and your bureaucrats, and your teachers, and your artists, and your artificers.”

“You really think we’re going to need-”

“It’s a revolt,” Damaris reminded him firmly. “A _rebellion._ You’re helping to overthrow a government, and a government that wasn’t particularly well-run at that. You need people with experience in doing these things, even small scale, so they can set up the foundation and teach people to do it themselves. To have peace you need something people want to _live_ in, not the wreckage left behind once the armies have finished trampling all over it!”

“Okay, _fine,_ ” Piitros said, and was distantly pleased to find that he wasn’t upset about being rude. Maybe it was only a push he needed to abandon it- he’d have to test that further. “If you want to come that badly, come. Just- don’t get hurt.”

“If we are to die it will be in the service of the Lord, and there is no greater cause.”

It had taken a day of riding and walking to get to the mountains from the battleground- and it had been a _long_ day. It took a little more than three to get from the mountains to Mazzera, though it was on the southern edge of the former Barony of Fulinia, now openly called Volhynijzeme by its inhabitants, rather than just in the stories they would tell in the quiet nights, in their own languages, where the Roman _arzemniiks_ couldn’t hear them. When they finally got there, it took the rest of the day to sort out where they were going to put everyone.

“We need a supply line,” Rasim declared over the dinner being served in Mazzera castle, formerly the home of the Barons of Fulinia, and now given over to the Governor the former serfs had appointed from amongst their own ranks after the last Baron had been run out and the Roman-descended freeman class fled or given their individual promises of peace.

“If you give us money,” Governor Aleksandras Vasarvykasy Volhyniavan said. “Then we can arrange for the caravans we contract to come just along the Sarmatian side of the border to bring extra. It will cost you quite a bit more than if you were buying it from Lithuania, though.”

“I doubt the Lithuanians would sell us anything,” Rasim said.

“Why do you think we have to pay the caravans to come through Sarmatia?” the governor asked. “They won’t sell ‘rebellious serfs’ anything, either. Not openly or legally, anyhow.”

“We hunt for our food in Sarmatia,” Gwen said. “We can do it here too.”

“Can you do it without stripping Volhynijzeme bare of game within three day?” Aleksandras challenged. “Because the Volhyniavanai have to eat as well!”

There was an extended argument over the quantity of edible wildlife in Volhynijzeme and the Sarmatians’ general lack of money before Damaris, from her seat at the table, stepped in to remind everyone that Rasim had said _‘supply line’,_ which rather implied foraging expeditions- and Sarmatia was still right there. The Sarmatians could hunt in Sarmatia; and anyway, how did they think they’d been feeding the refugees? Arrangements could be made with the Haemou traders who operated out of the mountains- they could _even_ go so far as to ask the Tagimasiigsaila who’d been left behind to handle it _for_ them.

“Since you’re all Sarmatian, after all,” she concluded to silence in the room.

Maraaja turned to Gwen.

“Vanspag, I want to keep her,” she pleaded teasingly.

“It’s not my business you want to take to your wagon, Maraaja,” Gwen told her in Sarmatian, completely forgetting that Damaris could understand her. 

“Ask me nicely later and we’ll see,” Damaris told Maraaja.

Things settled down after that, and Aleksandras produced maps of Veneda, and Piitros and Gwen and Rasim and Vlypasa gathered around them with Aleksandras at the governor’s large wooden table.

“We’re actually in a very bad position here,” Aleksandras told them, placing his finger on Mazzera. “We’re at the very south of Veneda, with Lithuania right to our east and Drugovia to our west, both of them much bigger than us and their capitals far north. The only good part is that you can stay in Volhynijzeme for most of the way to Menesca or Daniapolis.”

“But it’s a flat ride,” Gwen pointed out, quickly grasping the basics of topographical maps. “We could be there very soon.”

“There’s towns and garrisons and castles in the way, Vanspag,” Rasim told her. “If you were a Venedan messenger- yes, you’d get there fast. But armies are slow and armies with an armed resistance move even slower. They have to rest, and sleep, and _eat;_ and you have to scout ahead and you have to spend time fighting-”

“Fine, fine,” Gwen said. “So we can’t charge them. What, then?”

“Well,” Aleksandras said, very casually, which told Piitros that the governor had been waiting for the perfect moment to spring this on them the whole evening. “The Sudovanai have already taken Bielstokh. You could just ride around Lithuania and catch the Duke of Galinda coming both ways.”

  He demonstrated on the map, drawing a sweeping line from Mazzera east through Sarmatia, avoiding the Lithuanian border, and then up into the Duchy of Galinda on the other side to the capital, Burshloz. Beilstokh was Sudovia’s capital, just on the County’s border with the Duchy. Galinda was a small place, and it would be much easier to take.

“And if you _don’t_ go,” the governor added. “Lithuania and Prussia will just crush the Sudovanai instead, from the east and west, and you will have lost a big opportunity. But if you take Galinda, well- you’ve flanked Lithuania. And Lithuania’s the one you have to worry about.”

“It’s hardly a flanking maneuver if you’re blocking less than half the eastern and western borders,” Piitros argued.

“If you don’t go now that the Sudovanai have moved,” Aleksandras said with a tone of assurance that made it clear he knew he was about to win the argument. “You’ll present yourselves as dishonorable allies, not coming to their aid.”

Gweniig got very stiff with indignation at the implication that she or any of the Sarmatians would _dare_ abandon a sworn ally and declared that they were riding for Galinda as soon as possible.

-

Galinda was easier to take than Lithuania or Drugovia would have been, _so_ much easier, but it wasn’t simple and it wasn’t straightforward, and while there were stretches of time where things seemed to be easy- for the most part, it wasn’t.

The ride _to_ Galinda was easy enough, even at a slower pace than the Sarmatians wanted because the serfs had to walk, for the most part.

But they were _at_ Galinda, and they had to establish a base camp, and they had to feed everyone and get them to be in the right place at the right time and there were entire families of Galindian serfs deserting to join their army or to ask for protection and the ones who could and would fight had to be sorted from the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t and then sent _further_ behind the lines for their own protection and they had to set up a biovac camp because the refugee camp was too far to house people who they hoped they’d be returning to their homes soon _anyhow_ and Piitros’ life descended into a nightmare of logistics where he _wished_ that there was paperwork for him to file, because then at least things would be _organized._

As the Sarmatian line pushed northwards in Galinda, headed towards Burshloz, Piitros slowly started to maybe get a hold of things. He took unused account ledgers and blank notebooks from the houses of the freeman administrators who had fled in the face of the Sarmatians and serfs or who had stayed and been killed to start keeping records in. It helped, at first just a little, and then a _lot_ after he asked Gwen for the use of Doctor Conochvars, who had been with the Christians the entire campaign so far since Gwen hadn’t told him to do anything else, to sit in on meetings and basically function as his secretary.

By the time they were planning the siege lines around Burshloz- siege lines being a bit of a misnomer for a situation Rasim was assuring them shouldn’t last for more than two or three weeks at the worst if things kept mostly to plan- Gwen was entirely fed up with the attention Piitros was paying to his paperwork.

“Pitriik, if you continue to devote so much of your attention to this _‘bureaucracy’_ you say you love so much, I will have to tell everyone that you can’t possibly be the father of my child, because you were too busy trying to help your paper spawn more of itself.”

_“What.”_

-

When they finally got to the siege lines and met up with the Sudovanai to set them up, which was going to be _incredibly_ uncomfortable given that winter had set in, Gwen was due to have the baby within the next month and a half and Piitros was having a bout of unusually low spirits.

Gwen found him sitting by the fireplace of what passed for the local tavern in the small village some five minute’s ride from the rear of their siege line, staring at the flames.

“This is the fourth winter since I left Finland,” he said. “I never thought I’d be away this long. I never thought I’d end up here. I thought-”

He glanced over at Gwen’s visible pregnancy, and sighed, almost inaudibly.

“You thought that when you would welcome your first child into the world you do it with your family nearby and in the midst of your people,” Gwen supplied, taking one of the only other chairs in the room. She’d gotten somewhat used to them, during their time in Galinda. “But instead you are doing it in a foreign country and your uncle is dead and your aunt is far away and doesn’t even know.”

“When Stephen came to the camp I was worried that he’d tell Aunt Mai that I was alive and she’d do something that would put herself in danger from Ásbjarn,” Piitros told her. “But instead- nothing. I mean, it’s _Veneda,_ and they’re bad at news and there’s a war going on, but when the Finns do something, everyone hears about it. So she just- hasn’t done anything. Hasn’t _said_ anything. She didn’t even make an official announcement about finding me or anything, she-”

He stared morosely at the fire.

“I think she _hates_ me, Gwen,” he admitted quietly. “I think I made her so mad, running away, that she doesn’t want to hear about me and she doesn’t want me to come home. Otherwise she would have _said_ something.”

“You should write her,” Gwen told him. “After we take Burshloz. You’ve been teaching me and Eithan how, anyway, and Finnish is all we’ll know until Damaris and her people finish with the Venedan and the Sarmatian alphabets. Teachers should teach by example- so write to your aunt, and maybe then I will understand about these _‘poetical conventions’_ you keep speaking of.”

-

_1830_

Piitros did not end up writing the letter once they took Burshloz, because things got too busy.

Currently, for instance, Gwen was giving birth in one of the ground level rooms and threatening bodily terror on _everyone_ who had ever thought that giving birth was a good idea and that it should be considered on the same level as being a warrior because _this hurt so much worse._

Piitros had insisted that Doctors Conochvars and Damaris be present for the birth, along with Maraaja, _just_ to make sure that everything went well.

 _“If this kills me Pitriik-”_ she kept trying to threaten him, but never managed to get to the actual descriptions of what would happen.

“Of course, Gwen,” Piitros agreed, trying to keep her happy and his mind off the fact that she was essentially giving birth in a bare stone room in one of the most technologically-undeveloped places on the planet; and if this killed her, he wouldn’t ever forgive himself for not withstanding his aunt’s wrath and bringing her to Raajokin for care.

But the baby came and no one died, and the baby stayed unnamed for a harrowing twelve hours while Gwen slept off giving birth. Piitros held his new child the entire time, frantically hoping that nothing would go wrong because if the baby died without a name- no. No. Better to speculate about what sort of luohi-noita they could expect.

Gwen woke up just after lunch the next day, and immediately inspected her baby.

“Ah, a son,” she said.

“Are you disappointed?” Piitros asked, thinking it a reasonable question in the face of the value Sarmatians placed on women.

“Of course not,” she told him, and passed the baby back to him. “Here- you are far from home, and he is your son. You name him.”

He didn’t even have to think about it.

“Benhamanaag,” he pronounced.

It took some doing to find an appropriate spot to conduct the rituals that would add the newborn to the family, but finally they found a big, old tree on the grounds of Burshloz Castle near enough to running water to satisfy Gwen. They sat down in the fading afternoon and Gwen took the bowl of blood from the birth and stood with it raised before her, calling to in turn to Tabiti, goddess of growth, Oitosyrig, god of healing, and Agin, god of blood and war, to keep her son strong and healthy and to make him a strong warrior, pouring out a little of the blood to the ground after she finished the prayers to each.

Meanwhile, Piitros built the fire he would need to complete the Finnish side of the rituals and dug the hole at the base of the tree to bury the placenta. He measured carefully with Benham to make sure he’d fit in the hole himself, then dropped the placenta in and plopped the baby down on top of it.

“Hela, this child is known as Benham Pirkkje, and Benhamanaag of Tribe Stasig of the Sarmatians. This child’s parents are Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje, also Pitriik Vanapaghavuk, and Gweniig Vanspag Stasig. Through my line, I, Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje, do claim Benham as a member of the Pirkkje family, and thus descended from your father the Great Prince Loki Laivisi. Accept him into your Court when he comes to you in Tuonela, and tell his ancestors of his birth, so they know to look to his safety and his wellbeing here in Mailjemamme.”

Only with that done, with Hela knowing Benham’s name and family so he would be accepted as a Finn, would he let Gwen take him over to the stream. Intellectually, he knew that the immersion into the stream was similar to what he’d just done- the Stasig way of introducing new members of the tribe to their ancestor, the god of horses and water, Thagimasadaga. But, in Finnish thought, running water was what you put around graveyards to keep the boundary of life and death clear, and ritual immersion into running water felt entirely too much like inviting death to come for you to make Piitros comfortable.

He distracted himself by filling in the hole he’d dug to bury the placenta. By the time that was done, Gwen was finishing up with this last Sarmatian ritual- she had dipped the bowl into the water and was letting the current wash the blood away, revealing the braided necklace she’d made from mane and tail hairs taken from her horses. She fished it out and draped it around Benham’s neck- when it started to get too small, a few years from now, there would be a second ritual where the head priestess of the tribe cut it off with a knife, and he would begin being trained on weapons and horses.

Piitros had a second necklace for Benham, one that was spelled so he _couldn’t_ outgrow it. It had been a lot of work to get Maraaja and Jendiik and the Venedan smiths to put together a _taikakeinokaula_ , even with Raani’s advice and memories of her family getting ones for her younger siblings. They were such simple things in Finland.

Here, he’d had to search for someone who could twist together thick wires of gold and copper, which he’d had to provide to the smith himself from looted artifacts from Burshloz because it was cheaper than buying the gold from someone else. Then he’d had to find someone to cast the gold and iron and copper charms to hang from it- two copper wolves, one for Loki and one for Sikkin, to hang on each end of the charm, facing inwards; then two iron reindeer- he’d had to sketch those for the smith, who’d never even _heard_ of a reindeer- the metal for Seppo Ilmarinen who created the universe and everything in it and the shape for Mielikki, invoked for luck and wishes; and then in the center a golden falcon for Frija to represent her double form as the Frija-bird, who created the sun and the moon and Earth; and as the Frija-mother, who raised Loki and taught him his magic and intervened to save his children.  

Each charm was spelled for protection and luck and good health, and the whole thing was enchanted to grow as Benham did. Piitros fastened it on and then held his son over the fire, now large enough to be nicely warm on the backs of his hands and arms, and recited the stories of the creation of the universe, the meeting and rule of Loki and Sikkin, and then the establishment of their own family, the Pirkkjes, from the children of Loki and Sikkin. The first ritual was to introduce a new family member to Hela and the ancestors; but this second one was to introduce the baby to the universe, their membership in the Finns, and their own family.

The whole recitation was designed to take about as long as it did for the fire to burn down to coals- it was a bad omen if it took longer for the stories to finish than it did for the fire to die, and an uncertain but powerful portent if the flames were still going once they’d finished.

The flames were still going when Piitros finished.

“Hmm,” Gwen said, looking at the fire. Piitros had explained to her how this was supposed to go. “So you need a priestess now, yes?”

“There won’t be any clerics of Loki or Frija here,” he said, and pushed away his unease.

-

Maybe he couldn’t push away all his unease, or maybe it was just that keeping to Finnish notions of proper child raising seemed incredibly overbearing in comparison even to him amongst the Sarmatians and Venedans, who let their children have much more autonomy and were a lot looser, generally, about minding even the ones who couldn’t move around on their own yet.

But Piitros found himself taking Benham with him nearly _everywhere,_ which, by extension, meant that he was also taking _Eithan_ with him everywhere.

That had been an unexpected development.

“He’s so little,” Eithan had said after spending a good couple minutes just _staring_ at the newborn the first time they’d been in Gwen’s wagon together. “He can’t defend himself, he could get hurt. And this is a _war._ It- I just feel _right_ looking out for him.”

So Eithan came along everywhere with Piitros, since Piitros always had Benham, and started turning into sort of an honorary older brother for the baby. It worked out well- whenever Piitros absolutely had to use his hands for something, like taking notes he knew he’d need again soon, he could pass Benham to Eithan and be utterly certain that no harm would come to his son; and when it wasn’t imperative that he take notes himself or have his hands free, he could just listen on meetings or walk about on inspection and have Eithan practice his writing by taking down the notes for him. Piitros had discovered during his lessons to Gwen and Eithan that Eithan had retained some almost unreadable Futhark, but he was managing Vairkhu, the Finnish script, perfectly well for someone of his level of experience, and the constant practice was helping, even though it wasn’t always readable yet. The three of them- Gwen, Piitros, and Eithan- ended up with a sort of late evening ritual, where Piitros consolidate the day’s notes the master book he’d developed and Eithan would read the notes he’d taken aloud while helping Gwen keep Benham occupied or cooking so Piitros could copy them down without having to struggle through the script.

Today was one of the days when Eithan was taking notes for Piitros.

He’d, on Jendiik’s advice, approached Rober from the mercenary squad to ask for his help in the military aspects of resupply. Rober had ridden off for a few weeks, Jendiik and Vlypasa in tow, and came back escorting an _entire_ one of his family’s trading caravans.

“They did one special, just for us,” Rober had told him cheerfully when they all pulled in to Burshloz. “Was there a decision about where to go next while we were gone?”

“We’re pretty sure it’s going to be Daniapolis next,” Piitros had informed him. “We don’t have enough people to take and hold Prussia and if we make a move on Scalovia then Prussia and Corona and Zegalia will stop fighting over _it_ and come at _us_ instead. Drugovia is safer than taking Radmikia and Severa just yet, even though they’re weaker. We’re nowhere _near_ ready to take on the Magyar Lords; and with Sudovia and Galinda and Volhynijzeme we can keep Lithuania off our backs long enough to take Drugovia and Palotia.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rober agreed, and then he and Jendiik went off to find someplace to be by themselves for a while, away from Rober’s family.

If Wilhelm and Magnhild Draka, Rober’s parents and the caravan leaders, were surprised to see that Piitros arrived with a baby and a man who looked scruffy enough to be a vagrant in any European city, they didn’t say anything about it.

They opened, as was customary, with news and refreshments before actually talking about trade.

“It’s what?” Piitros asked, surprised, some minutes later. “It’s _over?_ The war’s finished?”

“Last year,” Wilhelm confirmed. “No one seems to know exactly what happened, but BINYAN made one final raid in Franx and then suddenly it was all over. The news broke in Alexandria five minutes after the peace treaty was signed and within ten minutes everywhere else. No one saw it coming.”

“Huh,” was Piitros’ only answer; and with a bit of trepidation he asked. “So who’s on the throne of Hekassir now?”

“Tankin Gallius of Belgunda.”

And with that Piitros could breathe easier because it was _Burgunda_ who was allied with Franx and Byzantium so that meant Alexandria and Hekassir and the Vikings and, by extension, the _Finns,_ had won.

“How did you not already know that the war was over?” Eithan asked him, sounding skeptical. “Where did you think all of our new non-combatants were coming from? Did you think they were springing spontaneously out of the ground somewhere? It was the refugees who didn’t want to stay in the mountains coming to make a new home for themselves.”

“Why didn’t they go back to wherever they came from?” Piitros asked to cover up the fact that he hadn’t actually noticed that there were more non-coms around at _all._ He’d been too busy worrying about the army and the siege and Gwen and setting up government and civil order behind the lines to pay attention to how _many_ people were doing it with him.

“They left their homes for _Sarmatia,_ ” Eithan reminded him. Maybe he didn’t remember any life outside of Sarmatia that would give him real reference for how much of an extreme that measure would be, but he’d learned enough from the Venedans and mercenaries to know how unthinkable that was to most people. “They don’t have anything left to go back to.”

From there the conversation turned to matters of the guns and ammunition and raw materials- metal, wood, tools, seed grain, young animals for breeding and milking and shearing- that the Draka had brought; and the negotiations went apace.

The Draka caravan went back to Hekassir with wagons stuffed with looted royal Venedan wealth- gold, silver, furnishings, paintings, flatware and silverware and light fixtures and rugs and all manner of household items that weren’t divisible and that no one in left in Veneda had the resources to swap for hard money- accompanied by Rober and Jendiik and Raani and Jyeleny bearing the contracts to secure and return usable goods worth the value of the riches. They also came with a guard of Oiorpata, to ensure security from any marauding Venedans or bandits, and to encourage the best prices in Vudhe.  

As soon as the caravan returned and proved themselves to have made very good on their promises, the army moved on Drugovia.

-

Drugovia would have been hard to take, but the Sarmatians had the serfs on their side. Nominally.

It always took a while for the already-freed Venedans to convince their cousin-peoples that the Sarmatians really _were_ there to help them fight, and not just to raid and then disappear into the sunset. But after they brought Vlypasa, who from this Barony originally, out to talk, the villages opened up and let them in.

The towns were a different story, but- well.

The serfs were on their side. The _mutant_ serfs were on their side. And they were angry.

So, _so_ angry.

This was where Rasim really got into his element. The mercenary squad and their associates would split up into pairs- Surayya and Vlypasa, Rohit and Chanpala, Kiều and Thayendanegea, Raani and Jyeleny, and Kati and Pytras, with Rasim in overall command- and divide the serfs up between them. One would take over instruction of the purely militant in nature- fighting hand to hand, fighting in formation, guerilla tactics- and the other would focus on mutant abilities. Many of the serfs needed training up, given that they hadn’t been allowed to use their powers unless under intense supervision by the knights. Any strong powers were sent with Rober and Jendiik over to Maraaja and the priestesses to train there.

In that manner, in about two weeks the entire squad could turn over a village to the established infantry army, which was now properly organized and somewhat-regularly outfitted, to complete their training under more experienced troops and start to see some action. And the training was set up to accommodate entry at any point, so really, within a given two-week span the squad had the people of between ten and fifteen villages to train, and was _‘graduating’_ five to seven of them. By the time they got to Daniapolis, they’d have to let new recruits go straight to the army for training, because there would just be too many people that needed processing and by then the army would be ready for them- but until then, it was working well, and the squad had enough time to drill the infantry along with the Sarmatian _‘cavalry’_. It would never be a regular cavalry- it would always favor skirmisher tactics and scouting runs over the direct approach of the knights- but they were training most of the Sarmatians out of charging knights head-on and instead letting the infantry deal with them, or to operate in groups and take down fleeing knights, or to mount a priestess or powerful mutant infantry soldier onto the backs of their saddles and _then_ doing a direct charge to break a line of knights; though the open-field assault of the first battle didn’t come up very often any more.

The situation- cutting up north through Drugovia, near the eastern border with Radmikia, and then sweeping west towards the Lithuanian border and Volhynijzeme- was actually _favorable_ to the Sarmatians, the mostly-peaceful claiming of villages and the street-and-hinterland skirmishes of taking towns and the smaller cities suiting their traditional style of fighting individually or in small groups. It was hard to get a horse down city streets, but some Sarmatians saw no problem in dismounting to run in and fight from the ground; and those who preferred to stay mounted found the gallops across the flat hinterlands surrounding the settlements to be both good exercise and good tactics.

Venedan free townsmen on foot couldn’t outrun a Sarmatian rider, after all.  

-

_1831_

The army stalled at the walls of Daniapolis for three months.

It was the muddy end of Laammetakuu, the Warming Moon, when what Piitros had come to think of as ‘High Command’- Gwen, Maraaja, Rasim, Vlypasa, himself, and, awkwardly, Damaris, who was always a voice for the earliest and least-bloody resolutions- decided that they couldn’t continue the siege any longer without inflicting undue suffering on the army and a strike team was sent into the city one night.

Piitros found his new powers very useful then, though not quite enough so to think anything kindly of Heimrikh Ásbjarn or his father. He, Chanpala, Surayya, Kati, Jyeleny, and Eithan- who’d proved to be the equal of a Sarmatian in terms of eagerness for war and ferocity in fighting but not so much in direct attacks- snuck in using their combination of powers and opened the city gates for the army, who came in as quietly as they could, which was not very much, as the others moved on to the castle itself and broke it open for the very noisy advance strike team made up of Oiorpata, some of the other mercenaries, and priestesses under the command of Maraaja, all of them with someone from the infantry mounted behind them and ready to slip off once they passed into the castle courtyard.

Daniapolis fell within six hours.

-

They’d had Daniapolis under their control for about a week, and were using it as a base to secure what little was left of the Barony to take, when the messenger arrived.

“She says her name is Feliksya Merész.”

“Never heard of her.”

“She has safe-conduct papers from Governor Volhyniavan.”

Piitros sighed and gestured for the Eithan to let her in.

Feliksya Merész turned out to be a surprise. He’d known by her name that she was Hungarian, but when she handed him her message- after the papers from Aleksandras- it was written in triple, first Greek, then Finnish, then Hungarian.

_To the General of the Venedan Army, or whomsoever may be the equivalent-_

_Greetings from Lady Elektra Natchios, Duchess-Apparent of Palotia. I extend to you a hand of friendship and aide in any attempt you may make to restore Polokijzeme to its rightful owners._

Piitros looked up from the letter, eyebrows raised.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

-

“No, I don’t know if we can trust it,” Piitros told High Command later that day. Eithan was still watching Feliksya, who had been moved into one of the small upper rooms in the castle until they decided what to do. “But she told me that Elektra Natchios wants to be rid of her father the Duke so she can do as pleases, and it doesn’t matter to her if she’s Duchess at the end of it or not. I got the feeling she doesn’t really _want_ to be Duchess, anyway.”

Damaris was the one who currently held the letter.

“Who is _‘Matiyos Megryvykasy Drujavan’_? He countersigned the letter.”

“Feliksya said we’d know him better as Lord Mathiou Mikhael Kyrios. He’s the current Seneschal. Apparently there’s some story about his father Ionathos buying a serf from one of the Drugovian knights and marrying her. Big scandal.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Vlypasa said. “ _That_ Lord Kyrios. Megriya was from my village, but I’m too young to have actually known her. The adults talked about her, sometimes. They were always scared something like that would happen to _their_ daughters. Ionathos Kyrios just wanted to avoid marrying any of the daughters of the other knights. He thought Megriya was pretty, so he paid the knight who claimed to rule us right there in the road, rode into the field, carried her off, raped her in the castle, and declared her his wife. When we heard that the son was born blind, we called it Gabija’s vengeance.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment.

“And if he’s backing a coup to destroy the _arzemniik_ ’s power in Polokijzeme, I suppose he really _is._ ”

“Well,” Piitros said after a long moment of uncomfortable silence on everyone else’s parts. “Elektra Natchios says that besides helping us get rid of Konstantinos Natchios, her brother Orestes is one of the Magyar Lords’ husbands, so she can get us leverage _there,_ too.”

“If we can take Palotia, we should do it now,” Gwen said. “I don’t want to sit around waiting and spend so many more months in _siege lines_. We should use our enemy’s internal disputes to our advantage.”

“We can trust this,” Maraaja announced. Somehow she’d ended up with the letter without anyone noticing.

Gwen narrowed her eyes.

“Are you-”

“We can trust this,” Maraaja repeated, with more steel. “Are you doubting me? It is truth; and we will be better for going now than later.”

-

Maraaja turned out to be right, and no one was _that_ surprised.

Palotia fairly threw open the doors to let them in- Feliksya, who was riding back to Desnopolis with the army, explained it as they went.

“The post of Seneschal is hereditary through the Kyrios male line. Ionathos was just as bad as any other knight, but Lord Matiyos’ mother raised him in her ways, not the _arzemniik_ ’s. The Polokians he rules over think well of him, and don’t run away. Sometimes he hides serfs from his neighbors in his villages. He sent word that if they saw you, you weren’t to be stopped. They’ll open the towns for us, too, even if the townsfolk don’t like it.”

The townsfolk didn’t like it much, but given that the Kyrios family seemed to own a good half of Palotia, the Sarmatians and Venedan serfs had essentially conquered the entire Duchy before they even got near Desnopolis. On Feliksya’s advice, passed to them from Elektra, they actually avoided Desnopolis entirely and made a fishhook movement around the country, entering from the northern part of the border with Drugovia and keeping north until they hit the far border, then turning around to sweep the southern part of the country, coming at Desnopolis- which was actually near the border with Drugovia- from the northwest, rather than the southeasternly approach they would have taken otherwise.

The army didn’t even really have to be involved, here. Feliksya used her position as personal maid to Elektra to ride straight into the castle with Eithan in tow, disguised- though it wasn’t technically disguised, given that he’d just walked along behind her horse carrying what they _said_ was one of her bags- as a serf she’d been loaned by Lord Matiyos for her errands. They had hidden a long-distance rifle, Eithan’s surprising personal weapon of choice, in the pack he’d been carrying, and Feliksya just got him set up at window overlooking the castle courtyard and locked him in for an hour or two.

While she was gone, Elektra Natchios assassinated her father with a stiletto over their private dinner. Then she called the captain of the guard, crying poison, and killed him too. From there she went to hide in Matiyos’ office, where _he_ called in a procession of generals and knights fled from their lands ahead of the advancing army- and then she and Feliksya killed _them,_ too.

Then Elektra pretended to flee the barracks where the rest of the knights were housed, to feed them the lie that the rebellious serfs had managed to sneak assassins into the castle and had killed her father and his advisors. She begged the knights to come to her defense.

They did. When Feliksya confirmed to Eithan that they were all in the courtyard, he opened fire.

Elektra Natchios and Matiyos Megryvykasy Drujavan walked down to the gates of the city and opened them for the invaders personally. 

-

No one had expected this astonishing bout of good luck to last, but then Elektra made better than promised on the other portion of her offer, and as soon as they’d gotten the basics of the government for Polokijzeme settled- Elektra officially voided the debt-contracts of every serf in the Duchy, declared the lands they lived on and farmed to be their legal property, awarded the contents of the knights’ castles to the army _‘in the interests of their continued struggle for freedom’_ , appointed Matiyos Governor, and then renounced all her titles. Matiyos declared the Duchy of Palotia extinct and the nation of Polokijzeme to be hereafter in existence as a wedding gift for Elektra and Feliksya, who had their ceremony immediately after Elektra’s abdication- Orestes Natchios turned up outside Desnopolis with the Magyar Lords in tow. 

There was a general rattling of swords and half-serious shouted taunts between the Magyars and the Sarmatians, which was how everyone knew they’d arrived. The Magyar Lords were hurried into the city, and a secret treaty was made.

The Magyar Lords would side with the Sarmatians and the serfs against the other Venedans. All the serfs on Magyar lands would be, from the moment of signing of the treaty, free, and able to leave their lands to join the army along with the levies of knights the Lords were sending, mostly younger children waiting for their parents to die so they could come into their inheritance.

“Why would you give up your power?” Piitros asked suspiciously, in the midst of the negotiations.

“It’s limiting,” Orestes’ wife, the Marcher Lord of Viyanetia, told him. “We’re powerful, yes, and that’s nice- but we have to follow the laws of the other Venedan nobility, and we don’t care for that much. We’d much rather _stay_ the rulers of lands and people and let the _Gabijanép_ have _Gabijanépország_ on their own terms while we collect taxes and fight if we want to, _where_ we want to, against who we want to.”

Piitros spared a moment to thank Loki that, with that mindset, this alliance would stay strong indeed.

“Well, I can see that you and the Sarmatians will get along _splendidly._ ”


	7. Chapter 7

_1832_

Piitros didn’t tell anyone, but he was secretly relieved when the Magyar Lords left, taking with them a portion of the Venedan-Sarmatian army to train up the newly-freed serfs on the Magyar lands and organize the knights into fighting alongside them for the assault on Rizan. If anyone _had_ asked, he would have told them that it was because the Lords had agreed to take part of the army with them, and the army could enforce the emancipation of the serfs if the Lords decided to renege.

In reality, it was because the Marches were the closest part of Veneda to Finland, a byproduct of a mad dash across Sarmatia from the Magyar lands in Finland by a large section of the middling social ranks looking for either- the accounts were conflicted here- personal power or glory for their kin and patron state.

The already-established Venedan nobility seemed to have suspected both, and the Magyar Lords had never really been trusted not to be on Finland’s side. Piitros had suspicions that his presence might have given the Lords good reason to decide to prove the stereotype for their own advantage. As it was, the fact that the Lords had come to Desnopolis to negotiate rather than decide to stand on their own against the army meant that Piitros didn’t have to get anywhere near Finland, which was a relief.

It had been almost three years since Stephen Bethildrsson had come to the refugee camp. That was plenty of time for the formerly-lost Governor of Vinland to report to his Princess.

His aunt clearly didn’t want to acknowledge his existence; and Piitros refused to antagonize her by going near Finland with an army.

So while the Magyar Lords raised their levies and the army trained up the volunteers and their combined forces began their campaign against Severa and Gwen rode out with part of the rest of the army to check on Mazzera and the army’s now very long border with Lithuania, Piitros got to know Governor Drujavan. He found the new Governor to be very well-suited to his job.      

He also found out that Matiyos Megryvykasy Drujavan was a long-time spymaster.

The way he got this information was the Governor inviting him to dinner, during which he casually dropped: “So the Hekassir refugees in Menesca are harboring a grudge and the community leaders have tentatively opened communications with the local Lietuvanai resistance group.”

“But we haven’t moved into Lithuania yet,” Piitros said after a moment.

“Did you really think that we have not had our own resistance groups and underground rebellions?” Matiyos asked archly. “The Sarmatians only gave us an opening to come- somewhat- out of the shadows.”

“I suspect,” Piitros told him, acting on a hunch. “That _you_ know a lot about what is still in the shadows.”

Matiyos smiled broadly and waved his personal secretary, François Njallson, forward. François handed Piitros a stack of papers.

He spent a good fifteen minutes reading through them as they ate in silence.

“This is… something,” Piitros told the Governor.

“Thorough?” Matiyos asked. “Dastardly? I like _‘cunningly subversive’_ , that’s how your cousin described it.”

Piitros allowed himself to be resignedly bitter for a moment after he’d processed his surprise. The middle of conquered Veneda, in the capital of a minor state, in the company of a half-Drujavanai noble; and he was _still_ being beaten by the Princess of the Vikings.

“How do _you_ know Naomi?”

“Only my mother was French,” François spoke up. “My father was from Ibernís.”

“Do the members of Mac an Tòisich go _everywhere?_ ” he asked, remembering the Alban Viking who’d served as his cousin’s bodyguard and traveling companion when she’d passed through Finland during his younger years. Filip, he was pretty sure the man’s name had been.

“Not everywhere, Duke Piitros,” François demurred. “We of the clan have our duty first to the King of the Vikings, then to our ally-clans, and then to the good authorities of other states.”

“So do you send your intelligence reports to Queen Eydís or Governor Drujavan first?”

 Matiyos held his hands up in a gesture of calming.

“Queen Eydís does not need to know what we do here,” he said. “And François knows better than to bother her with such trivial matters.”

Piitros snorted.

“So _why_ are the Hekassir refugees holding a grudge?”

“They’re used to a rather _different_ standard of living than Veneda provides,” Matiyos told him. “The Duke of Lithuania differs in his colleagues only in his ruthlessness. He has to, to keep his position as the most powerful of the Venedan nobles. But now he is threatened to the east by us and the army, and to the west by the pretender to the throne. And inside his borders, in his _capital,_ there now exists a group of foreigners who have a love of strong kings and no love of the serfdom system. These foreigners want the technology they had lived with all their lives- but the Venedan nobles know very well what a slippery slope technology makes. As soon as you bring in some, even on just a scale large enough for a city district community, you must have the infrastructure to support it- and with that infrastructure comes the ability to access more information.”

“And with information comes power,” François said.

That much, Piitros knew from his days doing administration in Raajokin.

“And none of the nobles but _especially_ the Duke of Lithuania can tolerate anyone else getting more power than they already have,” Matiyos concluded. “So, I ask you: what do you want to do with the agents I already have working with the resistance?”

“Give me some time to think about it,” Piitros said.  

-

Gwen returned from Mazzera and the Lithuanian border just in time for the fall of Rizan, and visibly pregnant.

“A girl,” she told Piitros firmly. “I’m certain of it.”

Now that the Magyar Lords had tipped their hand to the rest of the world by taking Rizan and Severa, it was time to prove their position by moving west to neighboring Radmikia and participating in the flanking maneuver with the rest of the Venedan-Sarmatian army, approaching from the east.

Piitros gave his answer to Matiyos right before he left.

“Your agents Qadir and Kita undercover as Italian merchants- how secure are they in their position?” he asked the Governor.

“How do you mean?”

“We have our own, _actual_ merchant connections,” Piitros told him. He’d been talking to Rober; and through Rober his parents and the rest of the extended Draka merchant family/clan/consortium. “The Drakas of Hekassir. If the Hekassir community sends an envoy asking for a caravan to bring, say, Hekassir goods that can’t be otherwise had in Veneda, and to get information about what friends and family of those in Menesca are still alive, then the Draka caravans have a good reason to go to Lithuania. And in something that big, it would be easy enough to smuggle some things- weapons, computers, communications systems- though we’d need to smuggle the technicians, too, somehow, and the supplies to set up the infrastructure for it-”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Matiyos told him. “The Hekassir are only upset that the Duke won’t let them have their technology _legally._ There are plenty of border-runners in the Baltic Sea who are more than happy to bring them what they want without declaring their cargoes or docking at a designated port.”

“Don’t the Vikings and the police-guards of Estia and Livia-”

“Most of them _are_ Vikings,” François put in. “And Estia and Livia doesn’t care what goes into Veneda, so long as no one is stealing from ships bound for _their_ ports. _No one_ likes the Venedans.”

“Okay,” Piitros said. “Then Draka smuggles in weapons and technology- if you have Agents Qadir and Kita make a fuss about getting the chance to buy things from the caravan, then that’s adequate cover for passing information and perhaps a few- eh, small, deadly surprises? Whatever they can find.”

“It seems sound,” Matiyos said. “Go on.”

“Agent Bét Yokhanan is posing as a townswoman from Prussia, right?”

“Correct.”

“Do you have any free townspeople who could be induced into helping us?”

Matiyos pursed his lips and François started ruffling through the files in the office, eventually pulling some to give to his employer. Matiyos brushed his hand over them to read the raised dot-letters.

“Not many,” he said. “And none of them are well-organized. Most of them hotheads. Some social reformers, some revolutionaries. The Hekassir refugees may have encouraged some of them with their politics. One of them, Benjamin Ulrich, is an old contact from the school my father had to send me to so that I could learn to read. I haven’t heard from him since I became Governor. I suspect that the Duke is keeping mail or correspondence or business from crossing his eastern border.”

“If you can write orders to him to goad the Hekassir into encouraging the townspeople more, and Agent Bét Yokhanan for her to _keep_ the townspeople encouraged and spread some of the same ideas from the other end, I can give them to our Draka contact to pass on when the caravan comes.”

“You’re quite a useful man, Duke Piitros,” Governor Matiyos told him. “Did you have any ideas for Agent Ranta?”

“I’m actually not really sure what he _does,_ ” Piitros admitted. “The reports you’ve given me weren’t very specific.”

“Well,” Matiyos said, with a smile that clearly stated he was happy to keep his secrets. “I’m _sure_ I can come up with something.”

-

When Urusha fell, in the autumn, Piitros called a council of the Vanspagii, representatives of the freed Venedan tribes, and the Magyar Lords to stall for time. He put them to arguing about the rough plan of government he’d drafted during the siege to stall for time over the winter. Governor Drujavan’s spy network hadn’t finished stirring up the population of Menesca enough yet for the army to attack from an advantageous position, politically.

He got regular updates, though, mostly in short notes in François’ hand summarizing what reports the Sarmatian runners now stationed on the southern border of Lithuania managed to bring. One of them, sent near the end of the year, was a neat little piece of diplomacy- a pleasant surprise for the thoughtfulness of one of the army’s most useful allies on one hand; and a statement of power about his resources and expertise on the other.

 _Elektra and Feliskya arrived in Venice and gathered some funds there, as we discussed earlier,_ it said. _I asked them to take a detour on your behalf on their way to Jerusalem and Alexandria. They’ll be spending some months in Byzantium, at least long enough for a season at court and the social rounds. I will soon be receiving reports about what exactly Nordmann Ásbjarn is getting up to._

-

_1833_

By mid-spring, Menesca was full of unrest and ready for the application of some pressure.

The Magyar Lords’ forces, with a large compliment of the army’s new mounted infantry forces and some of the Sarmatians, plowed through the long northeastern arm of Lithuania on their way to the capital. The bulk of the army and the rest of the Sarmatians waited while the Duke panicked and sent the army to confront the Magyar Lords to march out of their camps over the Duchy’s eastern border, coming up behind the army to crush it between the two forces. They coordinated their movements with the small portion of the infantry that had been sent to compliment the part of the army that had been left behind in Galinda and Sudova- this group went over Lithuanian’s western border and made threatening movements, taking over three of the border counties.

The Duke spread himself too thin trying to reinforce his surrounded army in the north and provide for his vassal nobles’ protection in the west. His army was broken by the combined forces of an experienced cavalry, trained infantry, and mutant-inclusive tactics; and a fast sweep to the captured counties by some of the victors to reinforce the infantry decimated the forces there too. The Duke’s troops fled back to Menesca.

The army descended in a tightening semi-circle covering the east, north, and west retreats from the capital. The only place for anyone who didn’t surrender to flee was south, towards Sarmatia.

By the time they were in sight of the city and were entrenching- lightly, they would only make real siege lines if the plan went horribly wrong- Gwen was heavily pregnant and Piitros was trying to come up with a way to ask her not to participate in the fighting.

He hadn’t come up with a way that he thought would work before it was time for him to sneak into the city.

Just like in Daniapolis, he and Eithan were to go in ahead of the army and break the city open. Unlike Daniapolis, the mercenaries who had assisted them the last time were unavailable to help. The army had grown too much, and they were needed in their command posts. Piitros had no official rank or position; and Eithan took his only orders from Piitros or Gwen.

They were, once they got over the walls, to rendezvous with the Lietuvanai resistance and Governor Drujavan’s spies to tell them to move; then assist the resistance in opening the city in whatever way was deemed necessary.

-

In hindsight, getting over the wall ended up being considerably easier than the rest of the Menesca affair.  The city, Piitros discovered, was _seething_.

“This is what you call _‘tentatively on edge’_?” Piitros demanded, staring at two of Matiyos’ agents. 

Taneli Ranta just stared at him passively, but Tendaji Qadir raised an eyebrow.  “Nobody is killing anyone in the streets?”

Yiskah, leaning against one of the darker corners of the room, snorted.  “As of yet, in any case.  Mostly, I’ve been calming people instead of inciting them, but there _have_ been a few close calls.”

The words had barely left Yiskah’s mouth when a skinny boy burst into the room.

“Lady Jonesy,” he gasped, breathless, “We have a situation.”

Yiskah shifted away from the wall, her eyes sharpening.  “What is the problem, Ramus?” she asked, her words slurring strangely.  It took Piitros a moment to realize that the “slur” was, in fact, a dialectic shift.

Ramus’s fingers twitched.  “Guardsman Number Two killed one of the singers on Theatre Row.  The whole city’s exploded.”

“Go.”

Ramus was out the door before Yiskah had even finished the command.  Piitros stiffened, suddenly recognizing the background humming noise as the growing sound of an angry mob.

A _big_ angry mob.

Eithan bolted out the door, followed swiftly by Taneli and Tendaji.  Piitros moved towards the door, only to be stopped when Yiskah grabbed his wrist.

“What?”

“Don’t die,” Yiskah Bét Yokhanan snapped.  “Your warrior queen will rip the world apart.”

Piitros blinked.  “Ah.  Alright?”

Yiskah smiled, and vanished.

From the moment Piitros drew his sword until he got to the Duke’s (rather ostentatious) mansion, his entire thought process narrowed to a point – kill enemy, protect ally.

The inside of his mouth tasted coppery, and his vision was beginning to blur from one too many blows to the head, when Piitros ran into Rasim.

Who was quite obviously leading the fight _without_ Maraaja or Gwen.

“Where is Gwen?” Piitros demanded, pausing to scan the streets.  Absently, he stabbed at a Guardsman who got too close.

Rasim threw him a wild look.  “She’s not with you?”

Piitros took a breath to employ some well-chosen Sarmatian oaths.  If he said anything invoking a Finnish god right now, with his luck, it would come true.

“The Vanspag!” someone shouted.  Piitros whirled, and a shock of blonde hair beneath a metal helm caught his eye –

 – just in time to see Gwen run the Duke through with two of her favorite swords.

Piitros stared.  “Are you holding an _infant?!_ ”

-

“There is _nothing_ alright with this!” Piitros roared.  “ _NOTHING!”_

“She was born in battle!” Gwen snapped.  “It’s a good omen!”

“You could have both been _killed_!” Piitros shouted, ignoring the growing knot of terror burning in his chest.  “How _could_ you?”

“I couldn’t just stay out of battle –”

“That you _could very well have done!_   If –”

“You’re scaring the mercenaries.”

Piitros and Gwen whirled around, hands hovering over weapons. 

“What?” they chorused, glaring.

Eithan stared at them, a faint smile on his lips.

“You’re scaring.  The mercenaries.  We kind-of need them, you know.”

Piitros stared, and Gwen mumbled something uncomplimentary about cowards.  Eithan shrugged.

“Whatever.  Gwen, he isn’t saying don’t fight while pregnant, he’s saying don’t fight while in labor.  Is that really worth a fight?”  Snatching the new infant from Gwen, Eithan left. 

Gwen huffed.  “ _Men_.  Why can’t you just draw your swords, like normal people.  _Talking_.”  She shook her head.  “Fine.  But I draw the line at three children, then, if I have to be so careful.”

Piitros just hugged her, the knot of terror finally beginning to dissipate.

-

Lithuania was a big prize to digest- it was the largest of the Venedan states, easily as big as all of the Magyar Lords’ holdings combined, probably even a little bigger.

Menesca had fallen fast, but the army had reversed its usual tactics and gone for the capital before taking the rest of the country because of Governor Drujavan’s spies and sabotage efforts. So _now_ the job was to capture everything else.

No one was really expecting it to be hard- the Lietuvanai were enthusiastic about rising up, and the townspeople throughout the Duchy were more influenced by outsiders due to Lithuania’s size and primacy compared to the other states. When foreigners came to Veneda, they came to Lithuania. Now that the capital was taken and the Duke dead, they could do the easy parts.

It was just going to take a while. It was time spent with the Magyar Lords and High Command planning out the rest of the war- from Lithuania they would split, unevenly- the larger portion would go through Galinda and Sudovia to sweep the length of Prussia and take the costal capital of Ostburg, the biggest port in Veneda, to permanently secure their supply line from Hekassir and cut off the rest of the country. The smaller portion would cross the Lithuania-Zelonia border and Zelonia’s capital, Narath. Between Narath and Ostburg lay Kvaen, the capital of Scalovia. They could take it in the flanking maneuver they’d perfected over the course of the war. Then, from Kvaen and Narath it was north and joining the army again to take Dvagborg in Zegalia- which would give them a straight shot down the Dvagur River into Corona, the last unconquered portion of Veneda, and the capital Dvaghavn at the mouth of the river where it emptied into the Baltic Sea.

It was a good plan.

The plan was _so_ good, in fact, that Piitros couldn’t give any justification for why he could _possibly_ be needed in Veneda when he would be so much more useful to send north.

North; out of Veneda, to the Duchy of Estia and Livia. North; out of Veneda, to Tribe Ruirig.

North to the lands and people he’d inherited from his uncle.

Piitros cursed his competency.

-

_1834_

To Gwen, a letter, from Piitros.

There has been some argument over whether or not I am the Vanspag of Ruirig.  The current standing Vanspag of Ruirig is Tuula Vanspag Ruirig, and I have officially said that, while I will continue to represent the Ruirig to the outside world, Tuula is welcome to be Vanspag.  Mostly, I have reassured them that their cities and towns can remain as they are, and that all relations with Finland are to remain as they are.

We are now organizing for trade of iron and pottery, and possibly a small trade in peat.  So far, the representative of Livia keeps trying to convince us to buy coal instead of peat.  I have repeatedly reminded him that we have plenty of coal, and that we are _not_ using the peat for fuel, but to no avail.

Do you think that a trade in coal would be worthwhile?  It would allow us to avoid wasting energy in the mines.

In other news, the Great War is, as we were told, over.   There is apparently a person called “The Iron Warrior” flying around the Mediterranean in a suit of armor, attacking any remaining holdouts of HYDRA. 

The representative of Estia keeps starting arguments with Tuula, so I may remain here for quite some time.

-

To my Piitrik, this letter from Gweniig.  And also Eithan.

Trade in coal is a good idea, so that nobody has to work in coal mines.  How is the coal mined in Estia and Livia?

I am sending your words to Maraaja.

Gweniig and Eithan.

-

To Gwen, a letter, from Piitros.

The coal is mined mechanically, which prevents the need for actual people to go into the mines.  The negotiations drag on, but Tuula is not pleased with the idea of a unified Sarmatian state, so it is slow going.

This will mean very little to you, but word has come from Mississippi that Loki is dead, and that Sikkin walks the Earth in mourning.

How is Narath?

-

To my Piitrik, this letter from Gweniig.  And also Eithan.

Narath is a city-place and my swords are too clean.  The weather is terrible, and Maraaja is in Ostburg where there is blood flowing good.  There are a lot of clouds and no snow, just rain.  The mud is awful, and I am awful, and you are not here.

Miiria is very strong and holds her hands very tight with the knives I give to her.  The knives are not sharp, like you said when Benham has knives. Even though I want my daughter to grow strong. I am hoping that Benham is being strong with you even though there is no fighting.

I am sending the lazy not-warriors refugees to the Garisamadaag with the other refugee camp by the train where they are not in the way of the fighting.

Come back or I will fight with Meliisa all day and teach Miiria how to fight without you.

Gweniig and Eithan.

-

To Gwen, a letter, from Piitros.

I have been sending couriers with these letters – you can simply send one back the same way.  There really is no need to terrorize a poor merchant like that.  What did you do, grab the nearest traveler heading towards Estia and threaten him?  The man thought I was going to kill him!

In other news, Benham has done what no amount of diplomacy could do.  Tuula Vanspag Ruirig has three children, and they have attached themselves to our retinue (and Benham) with loud war-cries and declarations of loyalty.

You will be pleased to know that Benham can now strike a target nineteen times out of twenty, with his child-sized bow.  His knife-throwing is still abominable, although I believe that some of that may be due to sheer distraction.

I wish you were here.

-

To my Piitrik, this letter from Gweniig.  And also Eithan.

About the letter – yes.

I am pleased with Benham’s progress.  The rain is still making the ground terrible, and some of the priestesses are saying things like “witch-weather.”  I don’t know if they are planning or if they are suspicious.

Is there snow in Estia and Livia?  I have sent on your tales of the Iron Warrior and Loki to Maraaja, and she says that _everyone always says Iron but it’s not true, and condolences on the not-dead god-who-is-not-a-god_.  She also says that the stories are all true, so your sources are telling the truth.

If that is so, then after this war is over, I shall take you to find your Sikkin-goddess.

Come back or I think it might rain forever.

  1.   And Eithan.



-

The trip back to Sarmatia from Estia and Livia went quite differently from the trip in- they were provided passage on a ship, with a captain used to smuggling things into Veneda, and sailed down the coast. They had been warned to expect some sort of aggressive naval activity, since the war had been stirring everyone up, but they encountered no one- not even when they sailed openly past Dvaghavn, with its depressingly good fortifications.

The answer to this strangely peaceful trip came when it was time to weigh anchor in Ostburg- the city had been taken. The fleets were no longer under the control of the local nobility, seeing as they were quite obviously dead, and hanging from the display that had been put up at the mouth of the harbor.

Piitros was met by a runner when the ship came in, and escorted to the castle, where Maraaja was waiting, and taken rather deep inside to a cramped stone room. 

“You thought this was _what?_ ” he asked, staring at the row of objects the army had found in their looting.

“Some form of gun, I think.”  Maraaja was standing very still, her eyes dark with thoughts that Piitros did _not_ want to know.  “It is too large for a person to hold, though.”

Swiping his hands through copious cobwebs and mountains of dust, Piitros stepped closer to the strange object.  Set on two wheels, it had an oblong shape like a tube, but it was closed at the larger end, with only a tiny hole.

The entire thing was black, but clearly made from metal.  Piitros dragged a finger along the inside of the tube, and sniffed the gritty black grime that came away on his finger.

  1.   Which meant…



An image from an old text floated to the front of Piitros’ memory.

“It’s a _cannon_ ,” Piitros breathed, possibilities gleaming in his mind’s eye.  “Maraaja, how many of these _are_ there?”

Maraaja shrugged.  “About fourteen.”

“See how many of them work,” Piitros said breathlessly.  “This could _end_ our siege problems.”

They had _cannons_!

_-_

_1835-1836_

Maraaja and the army left Ostburg four days before Piitros did, carting the six working cannons with them as they headed east.

The following four days were some of the most irritating days that Piitros had ever experienced.  He spent the entire time going over the newly printed maps of the “State of Sarmatia,” (maps which wouldn’t even be accurate until they finally took Kvaen, Dvagborg, and Dvaghavn) and educating himself on their newly acquired naval capabilities.

“So…what you’re saying is that we can take the coast of Scalovia without having to worry about Kvaen?”

The newly appointed head of the Prussian fleet threw him a pained grimace.  “How is it, Lord Piitros, that you are Finnish and know nothing about naval strategy?”

Piitros winced.  “Up until recently, my only experiences with bodies of water had been the ferry between one side of Finland and the other.  My focus in study was science, not war.”

The Naval Captain mumbled something unintelligible from under his moustache, and waved his hand at the large, map-covered table that dominated the room.  “But this is not so hard?  Can you not see?  Coastal towns and cities are particularly vulnerable, excepting the case of Dvaghavn, of course.”

Piitros squinted at the map.  The block of wood that symbolized Dvaghavn was painted blue, instead of the green that was the color for both Ostburg and Memelburg.  “Why not Dvaghavn? I saw the fortifications as we sailed past, but…”

The Captain mumbled something else behind his moustache.  “Dvaghavn was established by pirates, so they were acutely aware of the sea.  They built the city defensible from the sea approach.”

“Ah.”

“So we shall attack the coastal areas, specifically Memelburg?  It is approved?”

Piitros stared at the map.  “Did you air these ideas with Maraaja?”

The Captain shifted uneasily.  “I…did mention them.  She called me a _‘good boy,’_ and patted my head.”  Piitros could practically hear the discomfort that Maraaja had a tendency to induce.

“Right.”  If Maraaja approved, that meant that it probably wouldn’t get too many people killed, and while Piitros wasn’t learned in the affairs of naval warfare, the strategy _looked_ sound.  “It’s approved, then.”

Piitros was just beginning to look for a way out of the conversation when Ramus Tiirsa burst into the room, red light shimmering around his fingertips.

“Ramus?”  The young man, who was sometimes known as ‘Gambit’ for his role in the fall of Menesca, had followed Yiskah, Taneli, and Tendaji as they guarded Piitros into and out of Estia and Livia.  He had proven to be in possession of one of the most complicated and convoluted minds that Piitros had ever met.

“The Priestess sent a message, the walls of Kvaen are about to fall!”

Piitros wondered, even as he dashed out of the castle and onto the back of Reino, if Ramus’ entire life revolved around delivering important pieces of information and stealing other people’s valuables.

-

Piitros arrived at chaos – the walls of Kvaen were not simply broken, they were _demolished_.  Apparently, the cannons had worked, quite well.  The problem lay, not inside the city, but outside.

The fighting had spilled from the city streets to the terrible terrain which surrounded Kvaen, and the near-constant rain of the past few months had flooded the rivers Neeriis and Memel – the fields surrounding Kvaen were muddy swamps, and most of the Sarmatians and mercenaries had been forced to leave their horses in nearby Neeriisburg.  As clouds gathered overhead, it grew increasingly difficult to differentiate friend from foe – if it wasn’t for the strange powers that Piitros was still learning to handle.  Apparently, a friend-recognition-program was now constantly running in the back of his mind.

Ducking, (and nearly falling on his back in the mud) Piitros suddenly caught sight of something that they had not, up until this point, faced.

A _sorcerer_.

Stabbing a knight in the gut on his way back to his feet, Piitros began to shout.  “Maraaja!  _Maraaja!  I NEED MARAAJA!”_

Suddenly, the sky caught fire.  Red-gold-white flames ate at the clouds, flickering like the worst sort of nightmare.

The field was suddenly bright, much as if the flames had, in fact, eaten the clouds.

Later, Piitros would find out that Janaag had used her rather strange array of magical and mutant abilities to join the mutant powers of Jendiik, Rohit Desai, and Ramus.  Later, he would learn that Jendiik had left the joining as soon as the skies were lit ablaze, and that the young priest had begun to heat the ground – slowly, so that the fighters might gain their footing.  Later, he would hear that, after Ramus and Rohit had passed out, Janaag had called all of the horses from Neeriisburg.

At that moment, all that Piitros noticed was that Maraaja had found the sorcerer, and was rather desperately holding him off while guarding Gwen’s back.

All rational thought fled.  Even as the fire in the sky faded, and the ground grew steadier beneath his feet, all that Piitros could see as he cut through the throngs of Kvaen loyalists were the struggling figures of Gwen and Maraaja –

A sound from behind him startled some part of his focus, but not enough to do more than trigger that part of himself that seemed to be teeming with strange and new abilities –

He leapt –

Tagspapiig snorted at him, tossing her head, while Benhaag snickered from beneath him –

He had lost one of his swords, but that didn’t matter, because all good Sarmatians kept spares with their horses –

The sorcerer was so busy trading magical blows with Maraaja that he never even noticed as Piitros rode up behind him and removed his head.

It was, after all, one of the most expedient ways to deal with magic-users.

Gwen, whirling, leapt onto Tagspapiig’s back, and grabbed one of her spare swords – it seemed that one of her old ones was lost to the battle.  “Piitrik!”

It was impractical, it was ridiculous, it was like something out of a ballad –

But still.

In between decapitating knights and delivering terrible blunt-force-trauma, Gwen leaned across Tagspapiig’s back and kissed Piitros.

“You’re back!” she crowed, pleasure written across her face.   There was a good possibility that the redness of her teeth was entirely due to blood, and not shuriig, at this moment.  At the very least, she had enough blood smeared across her face to replace the face-paint favored by courtly ladies.

“Yes!” Piitros replied, even as the final clatters of battle faded into the moans and screams of the injured.  Lowering his volume, Piitros smiled across the body-strewn battlefield at his lover.  “Yes, I am.”

-

The ride from Kvaen to Dvagborg was…lazy.  The army moved ahead, settling in for the long siege that threatened at the capital of Zegalia, but Gwen and Piitros lagged behind with the supply chain.

Normally, they wouldn’t waste a moment, but their previous sieges had taught Piitros an important lesson:

Gwen did _not_ sit still very well.  Forced sedentary living, even temporary sedentary living, often turned Gwen into an angry warrior, and the only person who dared face angry-warrior-Gwen was Meliisa Vainkag Tagimasiigsaila.

So, with a predicted siege ahead, Piitros contrived to keep Gwen on the road for as long as was conceivably possible.

It worked for almost a month – but there was only so long that it could take to reach Dvagborg from Kvaen, and such leisure simply couldn’t last.

Piitros’ life went from bad to worse just as the siege camps at Dvagborg drew within sight.

“You!  _You!_   This siege had best not last very _long_ , Piitros!”

Piitros stiffened.  It was rare that Gwen called him Piitros, and not the nickname that she had coined years ago.  “What did I do?”

Gwen bared her newly dyed teeth at him.  “You got me _pregnant_ again!  I swear, the first thing I’m asking Maraaja for when this child is born is an amulet!  What if I don’t get to fight?  How _could_ you?”

Normally, this was a cause for celebration – as it was, Piitros felt as burst of joy in his chest.  The problem lay in Gwen’s perspective of the situation.  She had promised not to fight if she was in labor, and Dvagborg promised to be a long and tedious siege.

Piitros realized, with a terrible sinking feeling, that this siege was going to be the worst one in Sarmatian history.

-

Sitting in the branches of a small tree, keen eyes spied their prey.  _Patience…patience…_

“HA!”

Dirt flew as Eithan landed on his back, hard.  Eyes twinkling, he smiled up at his tiny assailant.  “Am I captured, oh warrior?”

Benham nodded, his reddish-blonde hair flying in his face.  “I captured you!” he declared.  “You’re dead, Winter Soldier!”

“Oh, I am, am I?” Eithan shifted, and surged to his feet, swinging Benham high into the air.  “I think I’m pretty alive, what do you think?”

Benham pouted for a moment, and then beamed.  “Can we go see Mađva and Isii?”

Eithan frowned.  “Your Mađva and Isii are very busy, little warrior.  How about we go visit your friends with the Ruirig camp?”

Benham wriggled out of Eithan’s arms.  “I don’t want to,” he said, scowling.  “They’re boring and can’t fight right.  I’m going to see the priestesses.  Maraaja _always_ has time for me.”

Sprinting away, all thoughts of Eithan and the Ruirig children (who had grown up in a _town_ ,) left Benham’s mind.   Ducking around a group of horses, and under a group of arguing mercenaries (they talked very _strangely_ , all funny sounds without words,) Benham nearly landed on his face when he finally found the priestesses (and priests). 

“Benham!”  Maraaja appeared out of nowhere, and grabbed him, hugging him.  “Where is Eithan Militatalviin?”

Benham pouted.  “He wanted me to go play with the city-kids.  They’re _boring_.  Also, he said that Mađva and Isii are busy, but I think that they’re just playing, because they did that a lot and then Mađva got skinny again and then Miiria came, and now Mađva is getting big again so they’re playing to make another baby like Miiria and babies are _boring_ and I have nothing to _do_.”

Maraaja kissed him on the forehead.  “I promise you, your Mađva and Isii are not playing, they are talking a lot to some very boring people so that people will stop getting sleepy all the time.”

Benham frowned, wrinkling his nose.  “You mean like how Thayen and Jyeleny and Kati got really sleepy and Jyeleny got so sleepy that Oitosyrig took her to live with Agin?”

Maraaja nodded solemnly.

“But why can’t you fix everything, like you always do?”  Benham asked, still frowning.

Maraaja shook her head.  “I can make things go boom, and I can appeal to the gods, but this is not a thing that needs a boom or the gods.  It’s just normal people-things, Benham, so normal people have to fix it.”

“But,” Benham shook his head.  “But, Mađva and Isii _aren’t_ normal people!”

Maraaja opened her mouth, and shut it.  “You’re right, little warrior.  Your Mađva and Isii are much, much, much more important than normal things.  But they aren’t priestesses, Benham, and I meant that priestesses can’t fix –”

“Natarajakibéti!”

Benham frowned, trying to make sense of the liquid sounds – why couldn’t people just speak Sarmatian, like normal people?

Maraaja set Benham down on the ground.  “What?”

Another stream of liquid sounds spilled from the newcomer’s lips, and each sound made Maraaja look angrier.  Finally, she held up a hand.

“Jendiik!”

Jendiik, one of the priests that was also a warrior, did the same appearing thing that Maraaja did a lot.  “What is –”

“I need you to watch Benham,” Maraaja ordered the younger man.  “There’s a situation with the Vanspag.”

Jendiik nodded, and Maraaja was just – gone.

Benham scowled.  “What’s wrong?  Why can’t people talk normal?”

Jendiik sighed.  “It’s languages, Benham.  What –” He paused.  “How long have you been able to do that?”

Benham blinked, distracted.  “What?”

Jendiik touched one of his fingers to the tip of Benham’s nose, and a little spark jumped between the space.  “That.”

Benham felt his chin wobble.  “I don’t know.  Is it bad?”

Jendiik shook his head.  “Of course not!  Look!”  Flicking a hand, Jendiik created a small horse made out of fire, and stood very still as the flaming creature pranced around his hand for a moment.  “You just have a talent.”

Benham stared at the tiny fiery horse.  “So… everything’s going to be alright?”

Jendiik looked conflicted for a moment, and then a shimmer of something silver flickered across his eyes.  “ _Yes_ ,” said a voice that was _not_ Jendiik with Jendiik’s mouth.  “ _It will be alright_.”

-

_1837_

“There must be something that we can do!”

“The illness is simply ordinary siege-sickness,” Maraaja sighed.  “What has Damaris said about this?”

Piitros glared across the table at her.  “She’s sick, too.”

Maraaja flinched.  “And Dvagborg?”

“Nothing,” Rasim grunted, slamming his head on the table.  “Any and all rebels have either escaped, or been executed by the city guard.  We sent Kati in the other day, and all of our agents are gone.  They’re either executed, fled, or dead of disease.  We’re not the only ones hit by siege-sickness.”

“What I would give for a touch-healer,” Piitros breathed, sinking into his chair in defeat.  “This can’t go on too much longer.  I’ve ordered the navy to harass Dvaghavn so that the northern support from upriver stops, but there is little more that they can do, with Dvaghavn so defensible.”

Maraaja scowled.  “Touch-healing is one of the rarest forms of gods-gift.  I believe that there is _one_ in Alexandria, and _three_ in all of Finland!  We’d be better off trying to storm Dvagborg!”

Before anyone could answer, Kati slipped through one of the walls, her face twisted with fear.  “Sergeant, Priestess, Lord Pirkkje, Rober just fell from one of the spy posts.  One of the priestesses says that he probably has three days, since he hid the sickness until he fell.”  Her face twitching, she stammered.  “Ah – my best wishes to the Vanspag, Lord Pirkkje.” 

Before anyone could respond, Kati slipped back out the way that she had entered – through the wall.   Rasim swore. 

“Rober is one of my _best_ ,” he growled.  “I –”

Maraaja jolted to her feet, her eyes silvery and glazed.  “ _Hold!_ ”

Rasim and Piitros turned to stare at her.  “What?” Piitros demanded.  Gwen was pregnant, dying of siege-sickness, and Maraaja could do _nothing_.  What was she shouting about _now?_

“ _Maraaja, someone told Jendiik that Rober fell ill WE HAVE A PROBLEM!_ ”

Maraaja sagged, gasping for breath.  “That was…that was Ashaa…I think… our problem with Dvagborg…is about to be over…”

Dashing out of the makeshift council room, Piitros ran through a terrified-looking Kati, and came to an abrupt stop at the top of the hill overlooking Dvagborg.

Standing a few feet into the river, Jendiik was flanked by two priestesses, only noticeable by the fact that he was a young blond man between two women with vibrant red hair.

The air _beat_ , much like it might directly before lightning tore through space –

The river had an odd sheen, Piitros noted, and then –

The river exploded in flames, reaching for the sky like an eerie mockery of a forest bared of leaves.  The air _screamed_ with the presence of so much heat, and the heavily packed snow on either side of the river and all around Dvagborg melted in an _instant_ –

Nearby trees _exploded_ , the closest siege towers (thankfully vacant) _vaporized_ , and –

There was simply no way to see Dvagborg from within the firestorm, which screamed towards the sky –

Amidst it all, Jendiik and the two priestesses remained untouched, even as they were _wreathed_ and caressed by the towering flames.

Maraaja screamed something unintelligible behind him, but Piitros didn’t care.  All he could see was the terrible mass of fire that had swallowed a _city_ and was unaffected by _snow and river_ –

The water was oddly still, but that didn’t matter in that moment, as the fire tore itself to ever-greater heights, for a moment –

It looked like some awful bird, a bird so large that it could swallow all of Zegalia in two bites –

And then –

It was gone.

Then, only then could Piitros hear the roar of the river, fed by the melted snow and ice, blackened with ash, and held in place by a steadily-paling Maraaja, whose arms were bleeding freely as she invoked her gods-given powers.

 ** _“CONTROL THE PHOENIX!”_** Maraaja cried, her voice strangely overrun by what sounded like a chorus.  **_“JANAAG AND ASHAA, CONTROL THE PHOENIX!”_**

Piitros couldn’t see what she seemed so worried about – aside from the water, of course, but Janaag and Ashaa weren’t there, were they?

The water coalesced into a single, incredible, river, and poured down the path from Dvagborg to Dvaghavn.

Maraaja collapsed, and for a moment, Piitros thought that it was over.

The scream of a bird of prey, too loud to be real and too close for comfort, ripped the silent air apart.  Feet above where Jediik lay, unconscious, in the river, Janaag and Ashaa floated in the air, shining with a terrible golden light that was –

 – shaped like a Phoenix –

– which whirled, and slammed into their siege camps, exploding in a storm of golden mist.

Like Jendiik, Janaag and Ashaa fell into the river, unconscious.

-

Piitros wasn’t sure how long he stared at the black _hole_ that had once been Dvagborg.  There were no bodies.  There were no buildings.  There was no _stone_.

The entire place had become an oblong black splotch in the fields and forests of Zegalia.   Melted smooth, and burned black, it was like something out of a terrible tale of a war of gods.

He only moved when Gwen grabbed his arm, and dragged him away.

“G-Gwen!” he gasped.  “What?”

Gwen nodded towards the now-empty area that had been made into a makeshift hospital for those ill with siege-sickness.  There were only three bedrolls.

“The Phoenix,” Gwen rasped, still sounding a bit dehydrated.  “I’m not sure we’ll ever know what it was that Janaag and Ashaa did, but it cured us.  Every one of us who was still alive.”

Piitros shivered.  “That’s…”

“Terrifying,” Gwen finished.  She glared when Piitros gaped.  “What?  I’m not stupid, that type of power is beyond anything that a sword or arrow can fight.  I think that they were possessed by Api the Warrior.”

Piitros swallowed hard.  A goddess, walking their battlefields?  Finnish skepticism aside, that kind of power was _not_ something he wanted to face.

-

It seemed prudent, in the face of what had happened to Dvagborg, to go back and make an offering. Piitros had been thinking about it, and the Sarmatians could say what they liked primeval divine forces of the universe- _he_ knew what ‘the Phoenix’ had been.

Was it not massively powerful?

Did it not come in the form of a gigantic bird?

Had it not healed their army in the same breath that it smote their enemies?

The Sarmatians’ Phoenix was nothing less than Frija, mother of Loki, in the form in which she had laid the Sun-Moon Egg and created the world that her grandchildren protected. Loki was dead and Sikkin walked the earth- why _wouldn’t_ Frija be here as well, watching over her daughter-by-marriage and her family and people here?

No one tried to stop him on his way to what had formerly been Dvagborg, even though the Sarmatians had been muttering about it all day and staunchly refusing to go anywhere near the site.

Evidently, if he wanted to get himself killed by tempting spirits, their thoughts went, he was completely allowed to do so.

What was a little embarrassing was that everyone in the army who _wasn’t_ Sarmatian had had about the same idea.

The Venedans thought the Phoenix had been the most destructive of the forms of their goddess Gabija, who was, after all, primarily worshiped through and symbolized by fire. They had lit a bonfire to her and were throwing offerings into it, some people singing the history-legends of the clans.

He passed a few Greeks having an argument about which of their gods this could have been an intervention from- Zeus, for the form; Ares, because this was a war; Apollo, because of the healing; Hephaestus, because of the fire- and edged around some Hekassir and a few others honoring Thor. Piitros resisted the urge to do something rude. Thor was many things, almost all of them undesirable; but this was not Finland and if they wanted to openly glorify Thor they were allowed to.

He reminded himself that Thor was, after all, another child of Frija- even if he was the completely _worthless_ one and how _dare_ they give him honor while Loki was _dead-_ and continued to look for an appropriate place for the rituals.

He’d just about found a good place when he came upon Damaris and her Christians. Rasim and Surayya were nearby, enough for some form of solidarity but not so close as to be _with_ them.

“It was the hand of the Lord,” Damaris informed him, very seriously. “An angel was sent down from on high to perform a miracle the likes of which has not been seen since the flight from Egypt, and so tonight we give praise and thanks.”

“I didn’t know you had bird spirits,” Piitros told her.

“Angels are not bird spirits,” she said. “They are messengers and tools of God, and the seraphim come in fire with their six wings.”

Piitros was pretty certain he had only seen two wings, but that was between Damaris and her god; not him and Frija.

The religious observances continued well into the night and morning, long enough so that they actually put off leaving for Dvaghavn until the day after, which meant that, a few days later-

“ _PIITROS!_ ”

Halfway onto Reino’s back, Piitros reversed momentum and sprinted in the direction of Gwen’s voice.  They were _about_ to reach Dvaghavn, what could _possibly_ be so urgent –

Gwen smacked him with a glare of death, clutching her stomach.  “You _bastard!_   I am going to make you _regret_ –”

Gwen was in labor.

Which meant –

Which meant –

“Oh, no,” Piitros breathed.  “You – but that means –”

Gwen spat something particularly vile in Finnish – that, in hindsight, Piitros had probably taught her.  “ _You’re_ going to lead the attack on Dvaghavn!  Oh, Piitros, I am so, _so angry at you!_ ”

Like magic, (Piitros was beginning to suspect that it _was_ magic) Maraaja appeared.  Her wrists were still an angry red from her most recent call on the Sarmatian gods, but she otherwise was none the worse for wear.  “Gwen!”

As soon as Piitros was sure that Maraaja had Gwen under control, (as much as that was possible) he fled.

He had a city to conquer.

-

His anxiety turned out to be completely unfounded, in the end, and he wasn’t certain if he liked that development or not.

When they finally got into sight of the city, they realized they’d all missed something very important.

They’d all been so focused on the appearance of the Phoenix that they’d forgotten that the fire had been put out by a massive wave of water from the river, headed downstream.

Dvaghavn was downstream from Dvagborg, and it _showed._ The fortifications the city had been so proud of were gone, completely destroyed, leaving rubble and ruins in its wake. The city was still mostly underwater, though it was slowly draining, and the population of the city that hadn’t drowned was by and large sitting on their roofs, weeping and bewailing their divinely-ordained misfortune.

Piitros spent a good two minutes just staring at the city, and then another eight laughing about it. All this effort, just for the last capital to fall to a natural disaster!

Once he’d gotten himself together he organized the priestesses and mutants to drain the city the rest of the way, and get everyone to come down to help clean up. There probably wouldn’t be any loot here.

They _did_ find some things worth taking, in the bottom floor of the castle- things had gotten banged up and some of the textiles ruined, by the water, but things could be broken down to their component parts- and also some trouble.

Well, not _too_ much trouble. The people Piitros had brought with him were as spoiling for a fight as the rest of the army- not terribly much, but they _had_ been keyed-up to get bloody, so short work was made of the garrison, and they took the next two floors with few injuries on their part.

In the last room of the castle, right below the tower roof, Piitros looked down at Justus Maximus ‘Veneda, the one who’d _started_ this whole damn mess in the first place, and said:

“Leave him for Gwen.”


	8. Chapter 8

The day dawned dull and red, and despite all of Piitros' education, he couldn't help but see it as a bad omen.  Something curled uneasily in his gut, and spurred him to post a second set of lookouts beyond Dvaghavn.

Gwen rode into the city in the late morning, swords and bow strapped to her saddle, baby strapped to her chest, and a sour expression on her face.

"Have fun?" Gwen snapped, as soon as they were within speaking distance. Piitros rolled his eyes, and gestured towards the soaked and water-damaged ruins of Dvaghavn.

"Only if you count laughing myself sick for five minutes and cleaning up for hours as fun."

Gwen's eyes softened a touch. "No fighting?"  She dismounted smoothly, walking beside Tagspapiig as they navigated the destroyed walls of the ruined city.

"Just some skirmishing with untrained idiots in the lower levels of the castle."  Piitros shrugged. "I did save something for you, though. Up by the docks."

Gwen brightened, and buckled her swords to her waist, shooing Tagspapiig off with a kiss. "A gift?"

"You could say so."  

Handing their newest child over, Gwen took a faster pace, seemingly aware of the entire city's layout.

"Maraaja gave me some maps," Gwen explained absently. "I had to do _something_ while our child was entering the world, so I planned for unlikely situations."  

Stopping, Gwen threw him a smile. "I didn't expect a gift, though. What else could I possibly..."

Trailing off, Gwen stared at the docks. A great deal of their mercenaries had set up camp, there, and three of them were guarding a rather large makeshift stake.

Tied to the stake was Justus Maximus 'Veneda, the source of many troubles.

He had a block of wood in his mouth.

"Sorry," one of the mercenaries spoke up. "He kept screaming and yelling, and insulted certain personages enough that a couple of warriors tried to decapitate him. Since you said we were to leave him for the Vanspag, we had to come up with a makeshift solution."

"And nobody had a spare rag?" Piitros asked amusedly. Gwen had begun to stalk around the stake, drawing the attention of many of the mercenaries, and causing Justus to sweat heavily.

As one, the three mercenaries shrugged. Before there could be any more discussion, Gwen drew a small knife. "Call an assembly," she demanded. "I want every possible person to witness this."

As it turned out, Piitros had to do nothing but wait a few moments. The eavesdroppers and onlookers up and down the docks had done the job for him.

When Gwen deemed the area sufficiently full of people, she raised her knife, gaining instant silence.

"Here," Gwen said sharply, "is the culmination of generations of cruel overlords, thievery, and murder. This _coward_ has perpetuated our oppression, and the oppression of our sisters and brothers. He has allied with oathbreakers, and attacked innocents. He has such a lack of honor, that death by the sword is too good for such as he."  Gwen smiled. "Therefore, he will die, here and now, at the end of my siika."

Piitros was reasonably sure that the collective gasp of surprise could be heard as far off as Kesurga. The siika was the smallest blade a Sarmatian carried, less than four inches long, and blunt on one side. It was borrowed from the Hekassir _seax_ , and was usually used for cleaning under one's nails and slicing fruit.

It was one of the most ignoble ways to be killed, in the eyes of a Sarmatian warrior.

Coolly, Gwen tore the block of wood from Justus' mouth, removing a few teeth in the process.  "Anything to say, in your last moments?"

Justus sputtered, spat blood at Gwen, and began to scream insults and foul language at the top of his lungs.

“I thought not,” Gwen said icily.  

Five incredibly bloody minutes later, Piitros was impressed.  While he had known that Gwen knew enough about the most common type of human body to injure and kill, he had _not_ been aware that Gwen knew enough to calmly cut open a living being and _keep them alive while removing vital organs_.

When Justus finally died, Gwen sniffed, tossed the siika away, and stalked off the docks.  “Hang him somewhere where people will see him,” she called over her shoulder.

Piitros winced.  Not only would that be messy, but it would smell _terrible_.

“Don’t worry,” a mercenary said as people began to shift and walk away.  “We’ve got loads of preservation amulets from Maraaja that were supposed to be for food.  A few should hold off the smell for a couple of weeks.”

Piitros nodded, and dashed after Gwen.  They still needed to _name_ the child he held in his arms.

-

The sacred fire had just burned down to the coals when someone dashed out of the growing shadows to whisper into Gwen’s ear.  Nodding, she waved him off. 

“Piitrik, a messenger has come from the south,” she murmured, careful not to disturb their now-sleeping child.  “I’ll come get you if it’s important.”

Piitros looked up from the sleeping face of their youngest, and nodded.  “Lokimei and I will be fine.”

Gwen sprinted away, the last glimmers of the setting sun reflecting brightly off of her pale hair.  Piitros looked down at Lokimei, who snuffled softly in her sleep.

“We’ll be fine, won’t we?” he breathed, rocking back and forth on his heels.  “You’ll grow up and be as strong and terrifying as your mother, and I’ll likely be utterly incapable of saying no to you.  I only wish…”  Piitros sighed.  If only he could introduce his marvelous children to their Finnish family.  If only…

“Vanapaghavuk!”

Piitros jolted.  There was only one person who called him _that_.

Maraaja dashed towards him, her normally absent expression replaced by one of determination.  “Vanapaghavuk, your Vanspag needs you!”

Tightening his grip on Lokimei, Piitros took a breath.  “Lead,” he said.  “I’ll follow you.”

Then, they ran.

When they arrived in the center of the camp, Gwen was busily strapping all of her weapons on.  Her eyes were snapping with fury.

“What’s happened?” Piitros demanded, handing Lokimei to Eithan as he drew level with his wife.

Gwen buckled her third spare sword onto Tagspapiig with a _snap_.  “The citymen have captured the _refugee camp_.  All of our noncombatants are now in the hands of those dishonorable _scum!_ ”

Piitros’ heart began to speed up.  “The citymen?”

“Led by one called Nordmann Ásbjarn, according to our messenger.”  Gwen snapped.  “Our messenger, who _died_.  May her journeys in the Otherworld be glorious.  This cityman, this Ásbjarn, he will end his life in dishonor and never receive glory, I will _disembowel_ him and _cast the ritual of the sorcerer_ , so that he may never live in this world _or_ the Otherworld, that _son of a dog_ –”

“Nordmann.”  Piitros felt cold.  “Heimrikh was his son.  He was the one who sent Heimrikh and Conochvars to kill me.  It’s his fault that my uncle died!”

Gwen paused, poised to leap into the saddle.  “He killed the Vanspag of Ruirig?” she demanded.

Piitros nodded.  Someone nudged his shoulder – Reino, her large eyes gentle with affection.

Gwen smiled grimly, her re-dyed teeth gleaming dully in the growing moonlight.  “We ride hard south,” she said fiercely.  Around them, people began to hurry in different directions.  “We ride hard south, for one last battle.”  Her voice softened, and she turned to look at Maraaja.  “The children stay here.  Leave some priestesses to guard them, Eithan will remain here as well.”

Maraaja’s eyes glazed over, presumably as she passed on the orders.  Piitros swung up onto Reino, pleased that he hadn’t removed his everyday saddle with the slots for bow and quiver.  As soon as he had his swords, he would be ready to ride.

Gwen and Tagspapiig circled, followed by a slowly growing group of warriors.  Eithan slipped away for a moment, and returned holding Piitros’ spare swords.  Piitros buckled them on, and guided Reino to Gwen and Tagspapiig’s side.

Gwen drew her favorite sword.  “One last battle!” she roared.  “To the south!”

-

Conrad still wasn’t sure how the mercenaries had managed to sneak up on them. Some of it was that the army was away- but the refugee town, it couldn’t be called a _‘camp’_ any longer, had their own sentries.

He was unhappily sure that they’d been killed.

 _Turkish mercenaries,_ he thought, eyeing them carefully as he and the other doctors and medical staff were herded out of the Christian hospital. He hadn’t thought that Justus was that good at strategy, but hiring mercenaries to take out the town and threaten the children and the elderly and the source of the new and growing Venedan bureaucracy was a good way to make the army abandon the siege to come save them.

Except, when they got out of the hospital and under the cloudy sky, the mercenaries dragged him off to the town hall.

Nordmann Ásbjarn was waiting there for him.

And he wasn’t… scared.

 _Is it the Sarmatians?_ Conrad wondered frantically, as Nordmann started to declaim one of his threatening speeches. For most of his life, at this point, he would have been scared stiff- but now. _Did I get a new standard for ‘terrifying’ and not realize it?_

No, he realized. For a decade, he’d been living where Ásbjarn couldn’t possibly touch him- living when Ásbjarn didn’t even _know_ he wasn’t dead. He’d seen Sarmatians, and war, and refugees, and actually _helped_ people.

Nordmann Ásbjarn was just a rich Byzantine bully who’d been smart enough to keep from getting caught yet.

The slap came suddenly, and rocked him on his feet. One of the mercenaries was still holding him, so he didn’t fall over.

“ _Listen_ to me when I’m speaking to you!” Nordmann hissed, and Conrad blinked at him.

“You can’t outsmart Sarmatians,” he said, and found himself surprisingly calm. “They don’t work like that. They respect intelligence, but you’re not the right type of smart. You don’t organize, you don’t lead, you don’t create. You just try to terrify people. The Sarmatians could get behind that, except you don’t do it out and direct.”

Nordmann looked like he was about to _explode,_ and Conrad kept him fixed with a level gaze.

The other man looked away first.

“They have to have cells somewhere,” he snapped at the mercenary who was holding Conrad up. “Find them, and throw him in there. Let’s see how he does without food for a week.”

Which wasn’t even a _proper_ threat. He’d been here for the entire building of the town- it didn’t _have_ cells. Sarmatians- and Christians, and the Haemo- didn’t believe in jails. Troublemakers got shamed into doing better, forced into slavery, exiled, or killed.

But he didn’t tell the mercenaries that. They spent at least half an hour dragging him around the town, looking for cells, and that let Conrad get a good look at they were and weren’t doing.

Everyone was keeping quiet, because Turkish mercenaries were _good-_ but this was also a town, and a _large_ one, made up of war refugees. Just about everyone here could fight, even if it wasn’t well; and they could all _run_. And they knew these streets, and these mountains.

The Turks didn’t, and Ásbjarn didn’t know _anything._

The mercenaries ended up shoving him into one of the trade warehouses with the other adults and teenagers they thought looked threatening, or who had resisted being dragged off. The warehouse had been cleaned out of anything resembling a weapon or anything that could easily become dangerous, which was only smart-

But then the mercenaries just locked the doors and _left._

Or, rather, one of the others reported, there were guards outside. But there was no one in here _with_ them- and that was just stupid.

“Do they think that we can’t fight for ourselves?” one of the Haemo women muttered under her breath, sounding deeply offended. “We have mutants and trained fighters enough!”

“Maybe they think that the mutants and fighters are all off with the army, or were in the sentry guard,” an older Hekassir refugee suggested. “I know it’s nothing like what the rest of the world can muster, but _‘the Sarmatian army’_ sounds terrifying. And you know what Sarmatians are like. Just because _we’ve_ lived with them, and know that we weren’t left behind here because we can’t fight, doesn’t mean that _they_ know.”

He’d told Nordmann that he wasn’t the right kind of smart because he couldn’t organize. He could run a business, but that was different. That was people working for money, or working for you because you’d intimidated them. Not because they had to, or because you’d talked them around into doing it.

Conrad looked around, taking a mental inventory of who they had. De-weaponed Sarmatians who’d been looking after children, fairly spitting fire at the indignity and ready to start a fight as soon as an acceptable target showed their face. A number of Haemo- not even all of them refugees, just people who’d emigrated- because a town in the midst of Sarmatian mountains was safer than their homes with the clan wars and bandits had been. Refugees, who’d survived a continent torn by war and still had the guts to run to Sarmatia. Christians, who wouldn’t fight or hurt anyone, but who could be convinced to get people out of danger.

“So,” he asked the group. “What _can_ everyone do?”

-

They reached the mountains from Dvaghavn the next day, because Sarmatians rode _fast._ They hadn’t even tried to bring the infantry. They could hold the city and start rebuilding, and celebrate winning the lands of Gabija’s children back from the _arzemniiks_.

The Sarmatians had taken the refugee town under their protection, and they _couldn’t_ let Ásbjarn do anything to it.

He and Gwen were riding out front of the group, their horses’ breath clouding in the cold air as the first snow flurry of the season fell in the mountains. The pounding of hooves on stone and packed dirt was deafening, and Piitros was almost _glad_ that the Sarmatians didn’t take naturally to stealth operations, because that’s how he would have tried to approach this situation, but there was no way to make a cavalry army full of enraged warriors into a _stealth_ operation against a mountain town.

They started up the last mile-stretch of road to the town, and a new rumbling overrode the horses- the horrible shrieking grate of rock on rock, the thunder-roll of a landslide- and behind the town, a massive cloud of dust.

Piitros pictured the position of the town in his mind- the road went straight through, and with the Sarmatians coming up _this_ way-

A lone figure appeared on one of the reinforced footpaths on the slopes above the town, and let the wind blow out a _shuriig_ -red blanket like a flag.

The Sarmatians screamed as one, and beside him, Gwen surged ahead, sword drawn, hair flying, the very picture of war. Inside the boundaries of the town, he could see the mercenaries Ásbjárn had hired starting to pull together to face them.

They fell on the town as the river had on Dvaghavn.

-

The mercenaries who had come out to meet them fell almost painfully easily.  Compared to the joint fury and power of the Sarmatian warriors, harassed Turkish mercenaries who had just been caught unawares by an avalanche were simply no match.

Gwen, who had been seriously irritated with the lack of bloodshed in the past few weeks, gleefully disemboweled those soldiers who didn’t immediately die.

Alongside them, shouting angrily, many of the people who had been left in the town were now snatching weapons and joining the battle.  Piitros caught as many as five different languages shouting variations on the Sarmatian battlecry.

And then it was over, the moaning cries of those few dying who had not yet passed on filling the air with the haunting sounds of a former battlefield.  Nearby buildings were splattered with gore and gouged in several places, but Piitros was pleased to see that almost none of their warriors _or_ the refugees had died in the fight.  Buildings could be mended – lives could not be replaced.

Gwen rode up to him, her helm glinting in the setting sun.  “Have you seen Curt?” she asked, stabbing a moaning Turk as she rode past.  “The refugees say that he helped them fight off the Turks before we got here, and that he organized the Christians and the children.”

Piitros breathed in a mouthful of dust, coughed, and shook his head.  “I haven’t seen him, not even –” He froze, pulling Reino to a stop.  “Gwen, did we get Ásbjarn?”

Gwen’s eyes sharpened.  “Hold – WARRIORS!” she roared, standing in the saddle.  “WHERE IS THE ÁSBJARN?”

From their normal post-battle movements, everyone turned to face Gwen. 

“He’s not on the battlefield,” someone spat in anger and disgust.  “That cowardly dog, worse than the false king –”

“Pardon, Vanspag.”

Gwen slipped off of Tagspapiig.  The speaker was a small child, probably between the ages of six and nine.  The child had dirty shoulder-length hair, sun-tanned skin, and was of indeterminate gender beneath a grimy smock.

Moments before, the child hadn’t been there.

“Vanspag,” the child said, “I stayed to watch because I can turn invisible so the dirty Turks couldn’t see me, and the horrible foreign man with the funny accent had a whole squad of Turks drag Doctor Conochvars away.  They went that way,” the child pointed south.  “Into the mountains.”

Gwen scowled fiercely.  “Conrad Conochvars is blood-bound to me, and any who transgress that must face my blade.  I am honor-bound –”

“ _We_ are honor-bound,” Piitros cut in.  “I am bound to you, and through you to Conochvars.  Besides,” and at this moment, Piitros knew exactly how Gwen felt when she bared her teeth to the world in a dangerous grin.  “I owe Ásbjarn a death.”

-

The terrain was terrible – when they had come south, they had cut through one of the northern passes between the Carpates and the Sarmatian Mountains.  Ásbjarn had clearly headed further south into the Southern Sarmatian Mountains, heedlessly barreling his way through everything.

On the one hand, it meant that they had a tremendously obvious path to follow.  On the other hand, dark had quickly fallen over the treacherous mountains, and the footing had already been terrible.  By the time the air had become cold enough to cut through their furs and armor, it had begun to snow over the unsteady paths through the mountains.

Piitros could see his own breath as he murmured to Gwen.  “Can we make it through the night?”  Benhaag was whuffling little white breaths of her own, carefully testing each step before placing her full weight upon it.  “Benhaag is fresh to keep moving, but the cold is no good for any of us.”

Gwen tilted her head towards the sky.  “Maraaja seems fine, and she’s _walking_.”  They both threw uncertain looks at the priestess, who still seemed underdressed while cloaked in fur and wearing a thick tunic and trousers.  She had run for as long as Benhaag and Tagshuriig had, _and_ had been fighting alongside Gwen and Piitros with Reino and Tagspapiig earlier that day.

Piitros rather suspected that one of the gods was supporting her, but he couldn’t figure out quite why this particular mission – to rescue a slave – would be important enough for a god to support it.

“Besides,” Gwen said, a tight smile twisting across her face.  “We’re close.  Can’t you smell smoke?”

As soon as Gwen had said it, Piitros smelled it.  Not just smoke, but the slightly-unpleasant smell of men attempting to make travel-meat into something edible.

The snow thickened, and Benhaag abruptly stopped, planting her feet and refusing to budge.  Moments later, Tagshuriig did the exact same thing.

Grimacing, Gwen jumped from Tagshuriig’s back.  “The footing is too bad.  They won’t walk from here.”

Piitros followed Gwen’s lead, dismounting as Benhaag and Tagshuriig began clearing a section of ground from snow.  He and Gwen joined in, helping clear a section of ground.  Both horses sat side-to-side to share body heat.  Gwen turned to Maraaja.

“Can you make our cloaks warm for them?” she asked, sweeping her cloak over Tagshuriig’s back.  Piitros put his own cloak over Benhaag’s back.  Maraaja nodded, her eyes burning silver.  They had been silver, Piitros suddenly realized, since Maraaja had decided to join them on their trip to catch Ásbjarn.

Golden mist flowed from Maraaja’s fingers, making the cloaks glow briefly.  Piitros could feel the warmth emanating from the cloth.

Satisfied, Gwen turned away, swinging her spare sword over her shoulder and leaving her bow and arrows with the horses.  “Come.  I can smell their idiotic campfire.”

-

Surprising the Turks that Ásbjarn had dragged with him was depressingly easy.  They had been preoccupied with the cold, lack of food, their own exhaustion, and had barely even posted sentries.

As it was, the sentries died soundlessly, and most of the mercenaries soon followed.

“ _NORDMANN ÁSBJARN!_ ” Gwen shouted, her face already spattered with blood spray.  “ _WHERE IS CONRAD CONOCHVARS?_ ”

“Right here,” Ásbjarn said, seemingly stepping out of nowhere.  Piitros scowled – where had Ásbjarn gotten a spelled-camouflage tent?  Those things were _expensive_.

Ásbjarn stepped fully out of the tent, dragging an unconscious and bound Conochvars beside him on the ground.  The whole time, he held a knife to Curt’s throat.  His eyes flashed.  “Hello, Piitros.  So _good_ to see you, after so long.”

Piitros tightened his grip on his sword and knife.  “Ásbjarn,” he spat.  “You owe me a life.”

Ásbjarn laughed, the notes wild and nearly hysterical.  “As if, little duke,” he sneered.  “No, what’s going to happen is that the two of you are going to leave, or else my men are going to kill your darling little selves.”

Gwen snorted.  “We killed all of your men, Coward-from-the-North.”

Ásbjarn’s laugh transformed into a cackle.  “Oh, _really_?” he gasped.  “Really?”

Ten Turks, looking nearly dead with exhaustion and shaking as they walked, stepped out of the invisible tent.

They died almost instantly, arrow-bolts sprouting from their eyes.

Maraaja slid out of the darkness, her silvery eyes burning.  “ **Try again, oathbreaker** ,” she sang.  There was something distinctly wrong with her voice.

At that moment, just as Ásbjarn shifted to snarl at them, Conrad opened his eyes and tore himself from Ásbjarn’s arms, rolling to the side and –

Transforming into a lizard.

Gwen hissed through her teeth, but none were more surprised than Ásbjarn, who jumped away in fear.

“Get away!” Ásbjarn shouted.  “Get away!”

Lizard-Conrad dashed towards him, and raked his claws along Ásbjarn’s chest.  Ásbjarn screamed in pain, and pulled something out of his jacket.  It made a nasty little blasting noise, and spat out a ball of fire.

A ball of fire that burned a hole directly through Lizard-Conrad’s chest.

“No!” Piitros shouted, darting forward.  “How _dare_ you!”

Ásbjarn pointed the blasting weapon at him.  “Step away, little duke, or I’ll shoot your little whore as well.”

“I doubt it,” Gwen said, waving her sword threateningly.  “You killed the Vanspag of Ruirig, Ásbjarn, the man who was Piitros’ mother-sister-husband.  He owns your blood.”

“ **And the gods own your life**.”  Maraaja stepped forward, her entire body shedding enough silvery light to light the whole clearing.  “ **Conrad Conochvars, child of Odinsmen, belongs to Gwenig Vanspag Stasig, and it was decreed: he will pay in sweat and not in blood, and those who transgress will answer to Oitosyrig and Argimpasa and Agin.  As a vessel of Argimpasa, I stand forth.  You have transgressed.** ”

Ásbjarn stumbled backwards.  “No!”

“ **In the name of the Death-Lord, you have transgressed.** ”

Piitros threw his knife, unthinking, and watched as it seemed to be enveloped in the silvery light from Maraaja.

“ **In the name of the Star-Lord, you have transgressed.** ”

The knife _blurred_.

“ **In the name of the Trickster who has all names and none, whose son you have harmed, you are condemned, and at his hand –** ”

The knife, blazing with silver light, buried itself in Ásbjarn’s eye.  The man screamed, and convulsed on the ground.

“ **You will die.** ”

Ásbjarn stopped screaming, choked, and lay still.  The light faded from the knife.  Maraaja turned to Piitros and Gwen.

“ **Worry not** ,” she said, the light fading from her body and centering in her eyes.  “ **You are blessed, son of the Trickster, Vanspag of the People**.”

The light vanished from her eyes, and Maraaja gracelessly fell to the ground.


	9. Epilogue

_1838_

In the end, it took close to a year to convince Gwen to do something coronation-esque.  In true Sarmatian fashion, Gwen had assumed that, now that the war was over, all would return to normal.

Of course, over the course of the past decade, all of the Sarmatian tribes had been united under one banner, the Magyar Lords had bowed to Gwen, and Veneda had been restructured into a free country of agricultural states loyal to Gwen.

Everyone looked to the Vanspag of Stasig, and they would continue to do so whether or not Gwen actually paid attention to them or ignored them.

So Piitros alternately begged, pleaded, explained, debated, sparred, explained some more, implored, argued, explained some _more_ , and outright shouted at Gwen over the course of ten months.

Gwen’s scowled had grown more ferocious every time Piitros had made a point she couldn’t refute – and their children had gotten something of an education about what their parents did _after_ a fierce argument.

At the end of it all, especially after constantly being consulted by messengers from the Magyar Lords and the new Venedans, Gwen had caved.

“I’ll do this ridiculous thing,” Gwen snapped, “Be Vanspag of all of the People and the Magyars and the Veneda, but we have to organize something so that I don’t have to live in a _city_ or something.”

In Sarmatian terms, that was all there was to it – the Vanspag was leader by consensus, and everyone else had already agreed that Gwen was the Vanspag over all other Vanspagii.

In the terms of everyone else, though – Gwen was going to be a Queen, and that meant a coronation.

“They want me to _what?_ ”

Piitros smiled weakly.  “Have a coronation.  It’s a celebration that validates your position as ruler, with a symbolic ceremony that says that you are now in charge.”

“I know what a _coronation_ is, Piitrik,” Gwen snapped.  “The Venedans used to have them all the time.  But they are in a capital city, which we don’t have, and they require dressing in impractical clothing, which I refuse to do.”

“The city of Menesca requested that we hold the coronation there, so we don’t need a capital,” Piitros said, “And you don’t _have_ to dress impractically, just in clean and impressive clothing.”

Gwen pressed her lips tightly together.  “Fine,” she hissed.  “But I insist that there is a round of fighting afterwards.  None of this fancy feast nonsense.”

So the coronation was set up.  Gwen glowered at everyone from her position on the platform above the clearing near Menesca, armed to the teeth and wearing every piece of gold that she owned, but she had agreed to go without her leather over-armor and her helm (with much grumbling).  The coronation was short – Maraaja declared Gwen the Vanspag and Queen over Sarmatia, Corona, Drugovia, Fulinia, Galinda, Ilmenia, Kravikia, Lithuania, Palotia, Prussia, Radmikia, Scalovia, Severa, Sudova, Viyanetia, Zegalia, Zelonia, and all of the peoples within those borders, painted bloody lines over the Vanspag-scars on Gwen’s face, and bowed to everyone.

Then, Gwen had divested herself of jewelry and had cheerfully asked who wanted to spar.

By sunset, the clash of steel on steel was still ringing over Menesca.  Piitros just sat on a small hill overlooking the spar-turned-brawl, (everyone had wanted to join in, and neither Sarmatians nor mercenaries were particularly known for their patience,) chewed on something that one of the locals had put together to eat, and smiled.

“Isii?”

Piitros looked up, and swallowed his food.  “Hello, Ben.  Got bored of watching Mađva fight?”

Ben shook his head.  “No!  But one of the Little Mothers said that it was time for Miiria to go to sleep, and that she wouldn’t stop watching unless I did, so I did.”  He sat down next to Piitros.  “Isii, why did the co-ro-na-tion happen?  Everyone knows that Mađva is in charge, anyway.”

Only eight years old, and already such a perfect little Sarmatian, complete with the straightforward blunt logic that Piitros loved in Ben’s mother.  “It was so that everyone who isn’t Sarmatian – of the People – knows that, too.  So that nobody like Justus Maximus ‘Veneda can claim that she isn’t in charge.”

Ben scowled.  “It was still silly,” he said bluntly.  “But I guess that some people are stupider than other people.  That’s okay.  Am I going to have to do that when I grow up?”

Piitros suddenly felt cold.  _Would_ Benhamanaag become Vanspag of Stasig, Vanspag over all Vanspag, and King over Sarmatia and Veneda?  Did he want that for his son?  Did he have a choice?

“That’s a question that doesn’t have a good answer,” Piitros finally said.  “Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t.”

“Hm.”  Ben nodded to himself, as if Piitros’ answer had actually helped him figure something out.  “Am I also going to stare and drool at Maraaja when I’m older, like everyone did at the co-ro-na-tion?”

Piitros choked.  Maraaja had dressed up for the event – which, for her, meant gold chains holding strategically placed gems in place, with four ceremonial daggers, and nothing else. 

In short, she had been closer to naked than most Venedans _ever_ got in public.

“That’s…”  Piitros decided to take the coward’s way out, just this once.  “That’s a question that doesn’t have a good answer.  Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t.”

The worst part was, if he told Gwen about it tomorrow, (assuming that she wasn’t entirely hungover and sore from fighting all day,) she would just laugh.

-

_A draft of a letter never sent to Grand Duchess Mei Loistavis Pirkkje of Finland, from Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje_

_~~My good aunt~~ _

_Piitros Loistavis Vanapaghavuk Pirkkje, Duke of the Finns and of Estia and Livia, Lord Consort to the Queen of Veneda Gwenig who is Vanspag of Stasig and of all the Tribes of Sarmatia and Gyula of the Magyar Lords of Imenia and Kravikia and Viyanetia, Lord Commander of the Special Infantry and the Artillery, Lord Director the Royal Engineers and the Royal Clerical Service, greets you_

_~~The plains of Sarmatia are flowering red to match the teeth of their riders and the blood spilled in the war now behind us~~_

_~~The sea beyond Daghavn is blue like the sky this afternoon, and the ruins of the city are as scattered as the clouds~~    _

_~~Unlike you, who are so fortunate in having three capitals, we here in Sarmatia must be content with none, and this~~_

_As I take my noon’s rest here at the reconstruction of Dvaghavn, I contemplate the congruence between the ruins of this old capital and the workers who labor to reconstruct it along the lines of all the best cities, such as the icy beauty of your own Revontulet Heikaal, and the ruins of my life upon which I have constructed something new and wondrous. In seeking to avenge the loss of family, I have gained new; in seeking to help those who needed it, I have acquired the leadership and responsibility you had always hoped to foster in me; in leaving Finland, I have found all that I wished to have there. ~~But I also miss what I remember~~ As your own people rallied to Finland in times past as a safe haven for those of the more blatant and inhuman mutations, here in Veneda we have built a country for all those who have been forced out or cast out or regarded as less human. Here in Veneda, under my wife, we have a home for refugees, for Sarmatians, for the Venedan tribes so long oppressed in slavery, for the Free Magyars, and even for Christians. ~~I’ve given them space for one of their temple complexes with a worship space and a monastery and a hospital, they’re really happy about it~~ Once was Dvaghavn the seat of a fractious and divided land that could barely claim the title of ‘Kingdom’, now it will be the ceremonial capital for those who hold royal splendor in the least value. ~~Gwen didn’t like it when I told her she needed to have a real capital, but we need somewhere for the diplomats and have state ceremonies and headquarter the military and the bureaucracy~~_

_Please Aunt Mei, I know I didn’t save Uncle Ben and I ran away and ever since we got this kingdom together Estia and Livia have been kinda sorta maybe leaving you to join us and I know no one’s sent a delegation in my name I wasn’t sure if that was going to make it better or worse I’ve been telling people not to mention me to you because I know what I_

_I’ve got a wife and three children we named them Benham and Miiria and Lokimei and I still can’t write a good Finnish letter but I’m no good at being a good Finn I’m not even really a good Sarmatian but I found my place **here** with the Venedans they all **need** me no one here knows how to run a country and I do I helped them run their war and I helped get the refugee camp turned into a real town and I keep hearing people making half-serious jokes about renaming Dvaghavn Petrosburg after **me** since I’m totally redesigning it and I just want you to be proud of me, Aunt Mei, and I haven’t heard anything from you so I guess you hate me and I’ve been trying to come up with the right polite way to say I’m sorry but I can’t make it work I’m **sorry.**_

_Please I want to see you again._

_Once we’re done rebuilding here I’m going south into the Haemos. I’ll be fine, I’ve got this guy Eithan who’s honestly pretty terrifying, he’s been guarding the kids, who’s coming with me. The Oiorpata threw in with us during the war, so really Tagimasiigsaila, who live down in those mountains, I didn’t know that there were any Sarmatians down there until they turned up during the war, is **also** beholden to Gwen. Anyway so it’s me, Eithan, and this Christian doctor Damaris I’ve made friends with, and we’re going to go talk to the clan heads in the Haemos about leaving Byzantium and becoming part of Veneda. I mean, it’s all warring clans down there, but the Sarmatians and the native Venedans were sort of that already, and look what we managed to do with **them.**_

_We might even go all the way to Byzantium. Incognito probably, if this works we’ve basically slid half of Byzantium out from under the Emperor and I don’t think they’ll be very happy with us. But we have Sarmatians. Damaris is going to ask for some sort of shipment of Christian things and they’ll probably send missionaries along, if the Haemos works out, and they’d have to come through Byzantium so we’d be meeting them there._

_I guess I’ll try this letter again there. Maybe by the time we get the Haemos sorted out and get to Byzantium I’ll be in control of myself enough to write a proper Finnish letter, instead of spilling my guts out all over the page like this._

_I’m sorry, I promise I’ll do the right thing and burn this later so I don’t disgrace myself by keeping it around and letting anyone else find out. I can be that much of a good Finn._


	10. Maps

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136508444@N07/23432577456/in/dateposted-public/)

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136508444@N07/22830380674/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136508444@N07/23090753129/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136508444@N07/22831919933/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136508444@N07/22831920243/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136508444@N07/23432699126/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136508444@N07/23376348761/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> Cast of Characters (In Order of Appearance):  
> Grand Duchess Mei Loistavis Pirkkje- May Parker  
> Dr. Miiria Loistavis Pirkkje- Mary Parker  
> Master Rixardos Zabat (Vusantilainen)- Richard Parker  
> Duke Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje- Peter Parker  
> Grand Duke Benham of Tribe Ruirig (Sarmatainen)/Benhaamanag Vanspag Ruirig- Ben Parker  
> Dr. Conrad Conochvars- Curt Connors  
> Master Heimrikh Ásbjarn- Henry Osborne  
> Master Nordmann Ásbjarn- Norman Osborne  
> Gwenig Vanspag Stasig- Gwen Stacy  
> Gyerthen Vanspag Stasig- George Stacy  
> Miria HaNarbon (of Narbonne)- Maria Hill  
> Maraaja- Mary Jane Watson  
> Jendiik/Jonan Alledyk Ryprusovan- Saint-John Allerdyce  
> Jaanag- Jean Grey  
> Sergeant Rasim Rasul- Lucas Bishop (Bishop)  
> Jyeleny Klausvykasa Rysupovan- Illyana Nikolievna Rasputina (Magik)  
> Raani Siinkjari- Rahne Sinclair (Wolfsbane)  
> Pytras Klausvykasy Rysupovan- Pyotr Nikolaievich Rasputin (Colossus)  
> Katarina "Kati" Prodi- Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat)  
> Chanpala Desai- Clarice Ferguson (Blink)  
> Vlypasa Saulėvykasa [Ry]Drujavan- Phillippa Sontag (Arclight)  
> Lý Phương Kiều- Jubilation Lee (Jubilee)  
> Rohit Desai- Roberto DaCosta (Sunspot)  
> Thayendanegea- James Proudstar (Warpath)  
> Surayya Qadir- Sooraya Qadir (Dust)  
> Hroberd "Rober" Draka- Bobby Drake (Iceman)  
> Stephen Bethildrsson/Peregrinus- Stephen Strange  
> Eithan Ahtiinanai Militatalviin(/Buchanan Bjorns)- the Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes  
> Meliza Majić/Meliisa Vainkag Tagimasiigsaila- Melinda May  
> Aleksandras Vasarvykasy Volhyniavan- Alex Summers  
> Wilhelm Draka- William Drake  
> Magnhild Draka- Madeline Drake  
> Feliksya Merész- Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)  
> Matiyos Megryvykasy Drujavan/Mathiou Mikhael Kyrios- Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)  
> Ionathos Kyrios- Jonathan Murdock  
> François Njallson- Franklin “Foggy” Nelson  
> Dakota Kita/Catarina Nordica- Dakota North  
> Tendaji Qadir/Caro Lucani- Luke Cage  
> Yiskah Bét Yokhanan/Iska Jonasy- Jessica Jones  
> Taneli Ranta/Daniel Rantas- Danny Rand (Iron Fist)  
> Ramus Tiirsa/Gambit- Rémy LeBeau  
> Ashaa- Hope Summers
> 
>  
> 
> List of Places (In Order of Appearance):  
> the Axeinos- the Black Sea  
> Finnish Minor Court (also Vaheisia Heikaal)- the palace complex in Raajokin, and the secondary Finnish capital  
> Revontulet Heikaal (also the Finnish Major Court)- the primary Finnish capital, located in the delta where the Yenisei River empties into the Yenisei Gulf. Composed entirely of the palace complex, grounds, and a small town, officially Royal property  
> Nihon (also Japan and the Japanese Empire)- Papua New Guinea, the majority of Indonesia, the Philippines, Japan, South Korea, North Korea, most of the Pacific coast of Russia and northern China, the southeastern and southern coast of Alaska, and the entire western coast of North America into the Rocky Mountains  
> Sine- Historical Song Dynasty China, north Vietnam, and the entire island of which western modern-day Malaysia is a part  
> Ankamuti- Australia  
> the Gorlog- the Yenisei River  
> Raajokin (full name Raajokin Kapunki)- the Russian city of Nizhny Novgorod, and the secondary Finnish capital  
> Raajoki- the Volga river  
> Sarmatia- See maps  
> Byzantium- See maps  
> Magyar- See maps  
> Estia and Livia- See maps  
> Veneda (also Venediik, Gabijanépország, Gabijanaijzeme)-  
> Cipros- Cyprus  
> the Ratnakrya- the Indian Ocean  
> Haemou/Tagimasiigsaila- the Balkans  
> Vudhe- Łódź, Poland  
> Garisamadaag – where Bucky fell  
> Memelburg – Klaipéda  
> Neeriisburg – Vilnius  
> Neeriis – the Neris river  
> Memel – the Nemunas river  
> Raajoki- Volga River (‘Raa River’ Rā+River; Rā Scythian/Sarmatian name for the river)  
> Raajokin Kapunki- Nizhny Novgorod (City of the Raa River)  
> Vaheisia Heikaal- the Minor Court; palace in Raajokin Kapunki  
> Revontulet Heikaal- Finnish capital (Northern Lights Palace; Heikaal from הֵיכַל, palace/temple )  
> Gorlog- Yenisei River  
> Ankamuti- Australian Aborigine tribe closest to Japan’s South Pacific holdings  
> Taivaskaavelija- the Finnish city of Helsinki, in this world the old Finnish capital


End file.
